The next morning we set out to cross the park. About 3:00 P.M. we arrived at the opposite side, and concluded to camp until the morrow. We had scarcely halted when a single Indian came out of the pines, and manifesting friendliness, came up to our camp. He could speak a few words in English; and we soon found that he wanted a shooting-match. We disregarded his solicitations for a little while; but he still presisted. Doc. then took his rifle in his hand, and making him understand that he was the poorest shot in the party, showed him that he would shoot. The Indian appeared delighted; and walking away three hundred yards, he cut a notch in a tree with his tomahawk, and with utmost satisfaction came back to shoot. He expressed his desire that Doc. should shoot first; and without ceremony he fired, striking the center of the white chip. The red-man gave his shoulders a shrug, and with an “ugh” of surprise he refused to make a shot, and was soon gone away disgusted into the pines. There were doubtless many others among the surrounding hills, and this one had perhaps come out to test our ability with the rifle. They are cautious about approaching the unerring ball, but at the same time entertain comparatively little fear from the awkward marksman. They have entertained this dreadful fear of the big rifle in the hand of a good marksman ever since the year 1860, when a party down in Texas were rounded up by buffalo-hunters and the most of them picked off at a very long range. This information is in every tribe, and will doubtless become proverbial. “Why,” they say, “the big bullets are whizzing down in Texas yet, hunting Indians.” The next morning, while preparing breakfast, two other Indians appeared and asked for something to eat. We did not hesitate to share with them, and they eat greedily. I might here remark that during the whole of our extended journey, notwithstanding that we were often approached by the hungry Indian as well as white man, we never refused to share eat and drink, no matter how scanty our supply.