e morning, "preferring the tyranny of the
open night" to such a wretched shelter, we crawled out from beneath the
fallen canvas. The wind had abated, but the rain fell steadily. The fire
of the California men still blazed amid the darkness, and we joined
them as they sat around it. We made ready some hot coffee by way of
refreshment; but when some of the party sought to replenish their cups,
it was found that Tete Rouge, having disposed of his own share, had
privately abstracted the coffee-pot and drank up the rest of the
contents out of the spout.

In the morning, to our great joy, an unclouded sun rose upon the
prairie. We presented rather a laughable appearance, for the cold and
clammy buckskin, saturated with water, clung fast to our limbs; the
light wind and warm sunshine soon dried them again, and then we were
all incased in armor of intolerable rigidity. Roaming all day over the
prairie and shooting two or three bulls, were scarcely enough to restore
the stiffened leather to its usual pliancy.

Besides Henry Chatillon, Shaw and I were the only hunters in the party.
Munroe this morning made an attempt to run a buffalo, but his horse
could not come up to the game. Shaw went out with him, and being better
mounted soon found himself in the midst of the herd. Seeing nothing
but cows and calves around him, he checked his horse. An old bull came
galloping on the open prairie at some distance behind, and turning, Shaw
rode across his path, leveling his gun as he passed, and shooting
him through the shoulder into the heart. The heavy bullets of Shaw's
double-barreled gun made wild work wherever they struck.

A great flock of buzzards were usually soaring about a few trees
that stood on the island just below our camp. Throughout the whole of
yesterday we had noticed an eagle among them; to-day he was still
there; and Tete Rouge, declaring that he would kill the bird of America,
borrowed Delorier's gun and set out on his unpatriotic mission. As might
have been expected, the eagle suffered no great harm at his hands. He
soon returned, saying that he could not find him, but had shot a buzzard
instead. Being required to produce the bird in proof of his assertion
he said he believed he was not quite dead, but he must be hurt, from the
swiftness with which he flew off.

"If you want," said Tete Rouge, "I'll go and get one of his feathers; I
knocked off plenty of them when I shot him."

Just opposite our camp was another isl