But at such a time, with the game thundering along a few rods in advance, the hunter thinks of little else except getting up to it. He looks as far ahead as possible, and helps his horse to avoid dangers, but to a great extent the horse must guide himself. The rider plies his spurs and looks eagerly forward, almost feverish with excitement and eagerness, but at the same time if he is wise he _expects_ a fall, and holds himself in readiness to take the ground with as little damage as he can. Mr. Catlin gives a most graphic description of a hunting accident, which may fairly be quoted in full as a type of many such. I must say that I fully sympathize with M. Chardon in his estimate of the hardness of the ground he fell upon, for I have a painful recollection of a fall I had from which I arose with the settled conviction that the ground in Montana is the hardest in the world! It seemed more like falling upon cast-iron than prairie turf. "I dashed along through the thundering mass as they swept away over the plain, scarcely able to tell whether I was on a buffalo's back or my horse, hit and hooked and jostled about, till at length I found myself alongside my game, when I gave him a shot as I passed him. [Illustration: THE CHASE ON HORSEBACK. From a painting in the National Museum by George Catlin.] I saw guns flash about me in several directions, but I heard them not. Amidst the trampling throng Mons. Chardon had wounded a stately bull, and at this moment was passing him with his piece leveled for another shot. They were both at full speed and I also, within the reach of the muzzle of my gun, when the bull instantly turned, receiving the horse upon his horns, and the ground received poor Chardon, who made a frog's leap of some 20 feet or more over the bull's back and almost under my horse's heels. I wheeled my horse as soon as possible and rode back where lay poor Chardon, gasping to start his breath again, and within a few paces of him his huge victim, with his heels high in the air, and the horse lying across him. I dismounted instantly, but Chardon was raising himself on his hands, with his eyes and mouth full of dirt, and feeling for his gun, which lay about 30 feet in advance of him. 'Heaven spare you! are you hurt, Chardon?' 'Hi-hic--hic--hic--hic--no;--hic--no--no, I believe not. Oh, this is not much, Mons. Cataline--this is nothing new--but this is a d--d hard piece of ground here--hic--oh! hic!' At this the poor fellow fainted, but in a few moments arose, picked up his gun, took his horse by the bit, which then opened _its_ eyes, and with a _hic_ and a ugh--_ughk!_--sprang upon its feet, shook off the dirt, and here we were, all upon our legs again, save the bull, whose fate had been more sad than that of either."[53] [Note 53: North American Indians, I, pp. 25-26.]