It was late before I wrapped myself in my blanket and lay down for the night, with my head on my saddle.  Shaw had not returned, but this gave no uneasiness, for we presumed that he had fallen in with Bisonette, and was spending the night with him.  For a day or two past I had gained in strength and health, but about midnight an attack of pain awoke me, and for some hours I felt no inclination to sleep.  The moon was quivering on the broad breast of the Platte; nothing could be heard except those low inexplicable sounds, like whisperings and footsteps, which no one who has spent the night alone amid deserts and forests will be at a loss to understand.  As I was falling asleep, a familiar voice, shouting from the distance, awoke me again.  A rapid step approached the camp, and Shaw on foot, with his gun in his hand, hastily entered.

“Where’s your horse?” said I, raising myself on my elbow.

“Lost!” said Shaw.  “Where’s Delorier?”

“There,” I replied, pointing to a confused mass of blankets and buffalo robes.

Shaw touched them with the butt of his gun, and up sprang our faithful Canadian.

“Come, Delorier; stir up the fire, and get me something to eat.”

“Where’s Bisonette?” asked I.

“The Lord knows; there’s nobody at Horseshoe Creek.”

Shaw had gone back to the spot where we had encamped two days before, and finding nothing there but the ashes of our fires, he had tied his horse to the tree while he bathed in the stream.  Something startled his horse, who broke loose, and for two hours Shaw tried in vain to catch him.  Sunset approached, and it was twelve miles to camp.  So he abandoned the attempt, and set out on foot to join us.  The greater part of his perilous and solitary work was performed in darkness.  His moccasins were worn to tatters and his feet severely lacerated.  He sat down to eat, however, with the usual equanimity of his temper not at all disturbed by his misfortune, and my last recollection before falling asleep was of Shaw, seated cross-legged before the fire, smoking his pipe.  The horse, I may as well mention here, was found the next morning by Henry Chatillon.

When I awoke again there was a fresh damp smell in the air, a gray twilight involved the prairie, and above its eastern verge was a streak of cold red sky.  I called to the men, and in a moment a fire was blazing brightly in the dim morning light, and breakfast was getting ready.  We sat down together on the grass, to the last civilized meal which Raymond and I were destined to enjoy for some time.

“Now, bring in the horses.”

My little mare Pauline was soon standing by the fire.  She was a fleet, hardy, and gentle animal, christened after Paul Dorion, from whom I had procured her in exchange for Pontiac.  She did not look as if equipped for a morning pleasure ride.  In front of the black, high-bowed mountain saddle, holsters, with heavy pistols, were fastened.  A pair of saddle bags, a blanket tightly rolled, a small parcel of Indian presents tied up in a buffalo skin, a leather bag of flour, and a smaller one of tea were all secured behind, and a long trail-rope was wound round her neck.  Raymond had a strong black mule, equipped in a similar manner.  We crammed our powder-horns to the throat, and mounted.