It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war party of Blackfeet were seen riding along a ridge on the horizon.  It chanced that the prairie at this place was almost destitute of trees or shrubs large enough to conceal the horses.  By dashing down the grassy wave into the hollow between the two undulations, and dismounting, Joe hoped to elude the savages, so he gave the word; but at the same moment a shout from the Indians told that they were discovered.

“Look sharp, lads! throw down the packs on the highest point of the ridge,” cried Joe, undoing the lashings, seizing one of the bales of goods, and hurrying to the top of the undulation with it; “we must keep them at arm’s-length, boys—­be alive!  War parties are not to be trusted.”

Dick and Henri seconded Joe’s efforts so ably that in the course of two minutes the horses were unloaded, the packs piled in the form of a wall in front of a broken piece of ground, the horses picketed close beside them, and our three travellers peeping over the edge, with their rifles cocked, while the savages—­about thirty in number—­came sweeping down towards them.

“I’ll try to git them to palaver,” said Joe Blunt; “but keep yer eye on ’em, Dick, an’ if they behave ill, shoot the horse o’ the leadin’ chief.  I’ll throw up my left hand, as a signal.  Mind, lad, don’t hit human flesh till my second signal is given, and see that Henri don’t draw till I git back to ye.”

So saying, Joe sprang lightly over the slight parapet of their little fortress, and ran swiftly out, unarmed, towards the Indians.  In a few seconds he was close up with them, and in another moment was surrounded.  At first the savages brandished their spears and rode round the solitary man, yelling like fiends, as if they wished to intimidate him; but as Joe stood like a statue, with his arms crossed, and a grave expression of contempt on his countenance, they quickly desisted, and, drawing near, asked him where he came from, and what he was doing there.

Joe’s story was soon told; but instead of replying, they began to shout vociferously, and evidently meant mischief.

“If the Blackfeet are afraid to speak to the Pale-face, he will go back to his braves,” said Joe, passing suddenly between two of the warriors and taking a few steps towards the camp.

Instantly every bow was bent, and it seemed as if our bold hunter were about to be pierced by a score of arrows, when he turned round and cried,—­“The Blackfeet must not advance a single step.  The first that moves his horse shall die.  The second that moves himself shall die.”

To this the Blackfeet chief replied scornfully, “The Pale-face talks with a big mouth.  We do not believe his words.  The Snakes are liars; we will make no peace with them.”

While he was yet speaking, Joe threw up his hand; there was a loud report, and the noble horse of the savage chief lay struggling in death agony on the ground.