So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid no heed to what the Irishman was saying. I had turned towards Wingrove--not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. I had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! It needed no explanation. The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout: "Hooray! he's down--be my sowl! he's down! I knew the owld musket 'ud raich him! Hooray!" The report reverberated from the rocks--mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. In an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. The horse was down--stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death! "Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn't it a splindid shat?" "A shot that may cost us our scalps," said I: for I saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement--even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. "Ha, ha, ha!" came the wild laugh of the Arapaho. "Vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!" And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors. CHAPTER FIFTY SIX. ATTEMPT TO STAMPEDE.