"Ay! Welsh Indians or Irish Indians, for what I know. Get up, will ye,
ye lump of flesh, and politely tell the gentlemen that we have tasted
nothing for the last three days."

Of course, we lost no time in lighting a fire and bringing our horses.
The meat was soon cooked, and it was wonderful to see how quickly it
disappeared in the jaws of our two new friends. We had yet about twelve
pounds of it, and we were entering a country where game would be found
daily, so we did not repine at their most inordinate appetites, but, on
the contrary, encouraged them to continue. When the first pangs of
hunger were a little soothed, they both looked at us with moist and
grateful eyes.

"Och," said the Irishman, "but ye are kind gentlemen, whatever you may
be, to give us so good a meal when, perhaps, you have no more."

Roche shook him by the hand. "Eat on, fellow," he said, "eat on, and
never fear. We will afterwards see what can be done for the legs." As to
the Welshman, he never said a word for a full half-hour. He would look,
but could neither speak nor hear, so intensely busy was he with an
enormous piece of half-raw flesh, which he was tearing and swallowing
like a hungry wolf. There is, however, an end to everything, and when
satiety had succeeded to want, they related to us the circumstance that
had led them where they were.

They had come as journeymen with a small caravan going from St. Louis to
Astoria. On the Green River they had been attacked by a war-party of the
Black-feet, who had killed all except them, thanks to the Irishman's
presence of mind, who pushed his fat companion into a deep fissure of
the earth, and jumped after him. Thus they saved their bacon, and had