though far from elegant, bore some marks of civilization, and offered a
very favorable contrast to the inimitable shabbiness of our appearance
on the return journey. A red flannel shirt, belted around the waist like
a frock, then constituted our upper garment; moccasins had supplanted
our failing boots; and the remaining essential portion of our attire
consisted of an extraordinary article, manufactured by a squaw out of
smoked buckskin. Our muleteer, Delorier, brought up the rear with his
cart, waddling ankle-deep in the mud, alternately puffing at his pipe,
and ejaculating in his prairie patois: "Sacre enfant de garce!" as
one of the mules would seem to recoil before some abyss of unusual
profundity. The cart was of the kind that one may see by scores around
the market-place in Montreal, and had a white covering to protect the
articles within. These were our provisions and a tent, with ammunition,
blankets, and presents for the Indians.

We were in all four men with eight animals; for besides the spare horses
led by Shaw and myself, an additional mule was driven along with us as a
reserve in case of accident.

After this summing up of our forces, it may not be amiss to glance at
the characters of the two men who accompanied us.

Delorier was a Canadian, with all the characteristics of the true Jean
Baptiste. Neither fatigue, exposure, nor hard labor could ever impair
his cheerfulness and gayety, or his obsequious politeness to his
bourgeois; and when night came he would sit down by the fire, smoke his
pipe, and tell stories with the utmost contentment. In fact, the prairie
was his congenial element. Henry Chatillon was of a different stamp.
When we were at St. Louis, several gentlemen of the Fur Company had
kindly offered to procure for us a hunter and guide suited for our