I perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun--that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs--told the cause of his death. Some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! White or red? Which fired the shot? If an Indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. If a white man, I might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. Even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a Christian of that kidney. It was the crack of a rifle. The red man rarely hunts with the rifle. The arrow is his favourite weapon for game. Notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. He might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, a _free_ trapper. I knew that upon several head tributaries of the Arkansas there were settlements of these singular men. From prudential considerations, I kept my place. Screened by the cotton-woods, I should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. If the hunter should prove to be an Indian, I could still retreat to my horse without being observed. I had not long to wait. I heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. The moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. At the same instant a voice reached my ears--"Off there, Wolf! off, villain dog! Don't you see that the creature is killed--no thanks to you, sirrah?" Good heavens! it was the voice of a woman! While I was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes--a girl majestically beautiful. A face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown--cheeks of purplish red--a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve--eyes like those of the Egyptian antelope--a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes--such was the head that I saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! The body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view--equally striking and picturesque. I need not say that it was of perfect shape--bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. A face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. When nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. Unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself--hence the perfect correspondence of its parts. And perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. The dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation.