At the beginning of the fall, a few months after my father's death, I and my two comrades, Gabriel and Roche, were hunting in the rolling prairies of the South, on the eastern shores of the Buona Ventura.

One evening we were in high spirits, having had good sport.

My two friends had entered upon a theme which they could never exhaust, one pleasantly narrating the wonders and sights of Paris, the other describing with his true native eloquence the beauties of his country, and repeating the old local Irish legends, which appeared to me quaint and highly poetical.
Of a sudden we were surrounded by a party of sixty Arrapahoes; of course, resistance or flight was useless.

Our captors, however, treated us with honour, contenting themselves with watching us closely and preventing our escape.

They knew who we were, and though my horse, saddle, and rifle were in themselves a booty for any chief, nothing was taken on us.