He was the most determined adventurer who had ever passed the Rocky Mountains, and if but half of what is said of him is true, his dangerous travels and his hairbreadth escapes would fill many volumes more interesting and romantic than the best pages of the American novelist.

Poor man! after having during so many years escaped from the arrows and bullets of the Indians, he was fated to fall under the tomahawk, and his bones to bleach upon the desert sands.
He was about twelve miles from his comrades, when, turning round a small hill, he perceived the long-sought object of his wishes.

A small stream glided smoothly in the middle of the prairie before him.

It was the river Cimaron.

He hurried forward to moisten his parched lips, but just as he was stooping over the water he fell, pierced by ten arrows.