JAMES P. BECKWOURTH.
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and stepped back. He was riddled with bullets in an instant, and fell without a cry.
His scalp sufficed to wash off the mourning-paint from every face in the village, and all was turned into mirth, although this general change in feeling did not restore the dismembered fingers or heal their voluntary wounds. Greater than ever was the Enemy of Horses, and I received a still more ennobling appellation, Shas-ka-o-hush-a, the Bobtail Horse. The village exhausted itself in showing its admiration of my exploit; and my single scalp was greeted with as much honour as if I had slaughtered a hundred of the enemy.
