Such a hurry was he in that, in his rush for the
river, he got bogged in the muddy swamp at its edge. I
seized my chance, and had him fast in a minute. We both
plunged into the stream; I, clothes and all, and drank, and
drank, and drank.'
That evening I caught up the cavalcade.
How curious it is to look back upon such experiences from a
different stage of life's journey! How would it have fared
with me had my rifle exploded with the fall? it was knocked
out of my hands at full cock. How if the stock had been
broken? It had been thrown at least ten yards. How if the
horn had entered my thigh instead of the horse's? How if I
had fractured a limb, or had been stunned, or the bull had
charged again while I was creeping up to him? Any one, or
more than one, of these contingencies were more likely to
happen than not. But nothing did happen, save - the best.
Not a thought of the kind ever crossed my mind, either at the
time or afterwards. Yet I was not a thoughtless man, only an
average man. Nine Englishmen out of ten with a love of sport
- as most Englishmen are - would have done, and have felt,
just as I did. I was bruised and still; but so one is after
a run with hounds. I had had many a nastier fall hunting in
Derbyshire. The worst that could happen did not happen; but
the worst never - well, so rarely does. One might shoot
oneself instead of the pigeon, or be caught picking forbidden
fruit. Narrow escapes are as good as broad ones. The truth
is, when we are young, and active, and healthy, whatever
happens, of the pleasant or lucky kind, we accept as a matter
of course.
Ah! youth! youth! If we only knew when we were well off,
when we were happy, when we possessed all that this world has
to give! If we but knew that love is only a matter of course
so long as youth and its bounteous train is ours, we might
perhaps make the most of it, and give up looking for -
something better. But what then? Give up the 'something
better'? Give up pursuit, - the effort that makes us strong?
'Give up the sweets of hope'? No! 'tis better as it is,
perhaps. The kitten plays with its tail, and the nightingale
sings; but they think no more of happiness than the rose-bud
of its beauty. May be happiness comes not of too much
knowing, or too much thinking either.
CHAPTER XXIII
FORT LARAMIE was a military station and trading post
combined. It was a stone building in what they called a
'compound' or open space, enclosed by a palisade.
