It was a terrible time for him--an ordeal equal to that endured by Sure-shot and myself. Every now and then some half drunken savage would come staggering past; and he knew not how soon some one of these strollers might stick a spear into him, out of mere wantonness! On the arrival of night, his hopes had revived; and the cool air had also the effect of partially restoring his strength. The savages, carousing around their fires, took no notice of him; and, as soon as darkness was fairly down, he had commenced crawling off in the direction of the river. He had a double object in going thither. He was suffering from horrid thirst; and he hoped there to find relief, as well as a hiding-place. After crawling for more than an hour, he had succeeded in reaching the bank; and, taking to the water, he had waded down, and concealed himself under the willows--in the place where we had found him. Such was the adventure of the _ci-devant_ soldier, Patrick O'Tigg--an escape almost miraculous! As if fulfilling the laws of dramatic justice--that the farce should succeed the tragedy--our attention was at this moment called to a ludicrous incident. The Mexican trapper had ridden up, and halted beside the waggon; when all at once his eyes became fixed upon an object that lay near at hand upon the grass. It was the black silk hat of the ex-rifleman, already mentioned in our narrative. After gazing at it for a moment, the Mexican slid down from his horse; and, hobbling towards the hat, took it up. Then uttering a fierce "_Carajo_," he dashed the "tile" back to the ground, and commenced stamping upon it, as if it had been some venomous serpent he desired to annihilate! "Hilloo! theer, _hombre_!" shouted Sure-shot. "What the ole scratch air ye abeout? Why, ye yeller-bellied fool, thet's my _hat_ yeer stompin' on!" "_Your_ hat!" echoed the trapper in a contemptuous tone. "_Carrambo, senor_! you should be ashamed of yourself. Any man who would wear a silk hat! Wagh!" "An' why ain't a silk hat as good's any other?"