e German in
his wild embrace.

"Wounded men were all around, and commenced crawling together. But
where was the fifth of the bears? Four only had escaped by the cliff.

"`Yonder he goes!' cried a voice, as a light spray, rising above the
snow-wreath, showed that some animal was struggling through the drift.

"Several commenced loading their rifles, intending to follow, and, if
possible, secure him. The doctor armed himself with a fresh pine; but
before these, arrangements were completed, a strange cry came from the
spot, that caused our blood to run cold again. The Indians leaped to
their feet, and, seizing their tomahawks, rushed to the gap. They knew
the meaning of that cry--it was the death-yell of their tribe!

"They entered the road that we had trampled down in the morning,
followed by those who had loaded their guns. We watched them from the
platform with anxious expectation, but before they had reached the spot,
we could see that, the `stoor' was slowly settling down. It was plain
that the struggle had ended.

"We still stood waiting in breathless silence, and watching the floating
spray that noted their progress through the drift. At length they had
reached the scene of the struggle. There was an ominous stillness, that
lasted for a moment, and then the Indian's fate was announced in the
sad, wild note that came wailing up the valley. It was the dirge of a
Shawano warrior!

"They had found their brave comrade dead, with his scalping-knife buried
in the heart of his terrible antagonist!

"It was a costly supper, that bear-meat, but, perhaps, the sacrifice had
saved many lives. We would keep the `cimmaron' for to-morrow; next day,
the man-root; and the next,--what next? Perhaps--the man!

"Fortunately, we were not, driven to this extremity. The frost, had
again set in, and the surface of the snow, previously moistened by the
sun and rain, soon became caked into ice strong enough to bear us, and
upon its firm crust we escaped out of the perilous pass, and gained the
warmer region of the plains in safety."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE SWANS OF AMERICA.

In our journey we had kept far enough to the north to avoid the
difficult route of the Ozark Hills; and we at length encamped upon the
Marais de Cygnes, a branch of the Osage River. Beyond this we expected
to fall in with the buffalo, and of course we were full of pleasant
anticipation. Near the point where we had pitched our camp, the