And as the secondary effect of the liquor was to make them quarrelsome, I had to pretend that I liked the expedition.
Not to weary the reader, we tracked the marauders, and came across them at earliest dawn the following morning, cooking their dog-stew under the shelter of a high bluff, with the stolen horses picketed near, in a cluster of young cottonwoods.
I have no talent for depicting skirmishes with the redskins; I leave all that to Buffalo Bill.

I will here simply explain that the Indians were surprised, but savage; that the whites were resolved to get back their horses, and that they did get them, and rode off victorious, leaving six dead and nine wounded red warriors on the battle-ground, with only one mishap to their own numbers.
The mishap was a trifling one to the border ruffians.

It was not so trifling to me.
It consisted of their leaving me a prisoner in the hands of the Indians.
I was bound to a tree, while the wretches jabbered around me, as to what they should do for me.

Then, while I was reflecting whether I would not prefer marriage with Miss Spitfire to this horrible predicament, they drove a stake into the ground, untied me, led me to the stake, re-tied me to that, and piled branches of dry cottonwood about me up to my neck.
Then one of them ran, howling, to bring a brand from the fire under the upset breakfast pot.
I raised my eyes to the bright sun, which had risen over the plain, and was smiling at my despair.

The hideous wretch came running with the fire-brand.