The mail contractor told his men to stand by their arms, and be ready for an attack. He then took his Sharp's rifle and lay down on the ground, resting his gun across a stone. He looked across the sights, and saw the chief "wheel his daring flight" within good gun range, but always on the full run with his head just in sight over the shield. Each Indian is provided with a rope or _lariat_ made of hide, and this is fastened by one end around the rider's waist, and by the other to the saddle, that in the event of his being killed, the horse will drag off the dead body and thus prevent its falling into the hands of his enemies. Some accident happened to the chief on the white charger; his stirrup broke, or something took place which obliged him to dismount. He was then about a hundred and seventy yards from the mail camp, and as he dismounted on the farther side, he was no fairer mark than before. It was easy enough to shoot down the horse, but that would accomplish nothing, as the chief was nearer to his friends than to his foes. It was evident that he must, to a certain extent, expose himself, when he mounted, and as he sprang up in his stirrup, his breast for a moment presented a fair mark. The sharp ring of the rifle was heard, and the chief lay on the ground, while the blood sprinkled the snowy flank of the beautiful charger. He was shot through the heart! The horse sprung, and the weight of the dead chief broke the _lariat_ clear from the saddle. The consternation among the Indians was terrible. Drawing their knives and pistols, the mail carriers gave a yell, and charged directly at the whole array of Indians. The head of the little band, whose successful shot had so opportunely killed the chief, had given orders not to attack except on the defensive, but nothing could restrain them; and appalled as much by the daring bravery of the whites as by the sudden death of their chief, the warriors broke and fled. The scalp of the unfortunate Indian was soon stripped from the skull, and, with its dark and flowing locks, formed a trophy of the short combat, and made the subject of a tale around the fireside of the bold and hardy pioneer. * * * * * We have room for but one more narrative of border life, and the perils of mail carrying in the backwoods; and this is also an incident in the life of our "model mail contractor." At a period anterior to the events just related, the mail, with quite a number of wagons, was wending its way toward Santa Fé. The party were near the banks of the Cimmeron, and then in the country of the Arrapahoes. Large herds of buffalo were constantly visible, but no Indians had been seen for some days.