In the noon of the second day, discovering that they were pursued, the Indians resorted to the cowardly expedient of killing the whole of the cattle. They cut open their sides, and let out their intestines, afterwards scaling the side of the mountain, to the north-east of the valley in which we had sighted them.
It was a lamentably pitiable spectacle to see the poor brutes moaning their moan of death, with their glazing eyes turned upon those who had come too late to save them.
Out of gun-shot, the Pah-utes—for the cruel scoundrels belonged to this tribe—taunted us in no very heroic style. This was effected by extending their hands in front of their noses, as well as by a most expressive and insulting pantomimic slap on a very significant portion of their bodies. Blackguardism seems confined to no special race or country. So, at least, it appears to me.
After a brief council of war, pursuit was decided upon, and we began to mount the precipice. Harry Arnold was with me, and we managed to delude the Indians into the belief that they were beyond the range of our rifles, by letting the few shots we considered it advisable to fire, fall short of them. This ruse tempted one of them on an eminence at some distance, to repeat his aggravating gesture.
"I believe I can pick that scamp off with my old Kentucky rifle, Harry!"
"He's more than three hundred and fifty yards off, Mose!"
"I don't think he is."
"If any man can fetch him, you or I can. It's worth trying."
He had scarcely concluded when the crack of my rifle was heard.
The Pah-ute, who had been standing up in a more defiantly noble position than previously, uttered a loud yell, bounding into the air and rolling over the edge of the cliff, on to the rocks below.