But the captain maintained a grave and austere countenance.  He mounted his led horse, however, though very slowly; and we set out at a trot.  The game appeared about three miles distant.  As we proceeded the captain made various remarks of doubt and indecision; and at length declared he would have nothing to do with such a breakneck business; protesting that he had ridden plenty of steeple-chases in his day, but he never knew what riding was till he found himself behind a band of buffalo day before yesterday.  “I am convinced,” said the captain, “that, ‘running’ is out of the question.* Take my advice now and don’t attempt it.  It’s dangerous, and of no use at all.”

The method of hunting called “running” consists in attacking the buffalo on horseback and shooting him with bullets or arrows when at full-speed.  In “approaching,” the hunter conceals himself and crawls on the ground toward the game, or lies in wait to kill them.

“Then why did you come out with us?  What do you mean to do?”

“I shall ‘approach,’” replied the captain.

“You don’t mean to ‘approach’ with your pistols, do you?  We have all of us left our rifles in the wagons.”

The captain seemed staggered at the suggestion.  In his characteristic indecision, at setting out, pistols, rifles, “running” and “approaching” were mingled in an inextricable medley in his brain.  He trotted on in silence between us for a while; but at length he dropped behind and slowly walked his horse back to rejoin the party.  Shaw and I kept on; when lo! as we advanced, the band of buffalo were transformed into certain clumps of tall bushes, dotting the prairie for a considerable distance.  At this ludicrous termination of our chase, we followed the example of our late ally, and turned back toward the party.  We were skirting the brink of a deep ravine, when we saw Henry and the broad-chested pony coming toward us at a gallop.

“Here’s old Papin and Frederic, down from Fort Laramie!” shouted Henry, long before he came up.  We had for some days expected this encounter.  Papin was the bourgeois of Fort Laramie.  He had come down the river with the buffalo robes and the beaver, the produce of the last winter’s trading.  I had among our baggage a letter which I wished to commit to their hands; so requesting Henry to detain the boats if he could until my return, I set out after the wagons.  They were about four miles in advance.  In half an hour I overtook them, got the letter, trotted back upon the trail, and looking carefully, as I rode, saw a patch of broken, storm-blasted trees, and moving near them some little black specks like men and horses.  Arriving at the place, I found a strange assembly.  The boats, eleven in number, deep-laden with the skins, hugged close to the shore, to escape being borne down by the swift current.  The rowers, swarthy ignoble Mexicans, turned their brutish faces upward to look, as I reached the bank.  Papin sat in the middle