dinary adventures as those which he describes. Life is, even to this day, as exciting and full of peril in some parts of America as is possible. I can remember on one occasion to have met with a man who, in journeying from Western Arkansas to Philadelphia, had been shot at twelve times on the route. This was in 1866. But much more recently, in this Langham Hotel where I am now writing, the following actually occurred:—
There happened to be assembled in the smoking-room half-a-dozen men from the Far West. Conversation turned on wild adventure in and west of the Rocky Mountains, and many thrilling tales were told, not as marvels, but as matters of ordinary occurrence. There was present one who took no part in the conversation. After the rest had departed he remained smoking in silence, I remarked that what we had heard was very interesting. He did not seem to quite understand what I meant, and asked to what I specially alluded. I said that such stories of Indian warfare were highly exciting. To which he replied—
"Oh, yes! Injuns are the devil—that's a fact. The last time I came over the Plains—six months ago—they shot seven balls into me. There are four of 'em in me yet. I went to-day to one of the best surgeons in London, and he says there are three of 'em which he can never get out."
This was told in a matter-of-fact, common-place tone, as if having bullets shot into one by Indians was no more remarkable than an attack of the rheumatism might be. Beckwourth's adventures are, in reality, nothing beyond such experiences as this. Even he never had seven bullets in him at once. This number recalls another anecdote. One day in Western Kansas, a man who had shown me some kindness, observing that I collected Indian arms, &c., observed—
"Mr, Leland, I wish I had known you cared for such things. The Indians killed a man right near here a little while ago, and I pulled seven arrows out of his dead
