ajestic valleys of the far
west. Here we met several men whose names had attained much renown among
the pioneers of the wilderness, such men as James Bridger, Tim Goodell,
Jim Beckwith, chief of the Crow Indians, William Rogers, a half breed, and
Arkansas Sam.

Our company numbered but four, consisting of my uncle, then and now
resident in California, who was returning to his home, from a visit to the
States; myself, who was crossing the continent mainly for the love of
adventure; another young man, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old,
called Joe. The boy had been brought from the Indian country, and was
about as wild and ungovernable a spirit as ever chased a buffalo or
shouted the war-whoop.

My uncle had often during the previous twenty years, crossed the
mountains, on trapping expeditions with an elder brother. In these
adventures my uncle, whom I was accompanying, had become quite familiar
with the peculiarities of the Indian, and had become acquainted with many
of the chiefs of the different tribes. Neither he nor his brother had even
been afraid to enter the camp of the Indian; for they had never deceived
nor defrauded him.

Let it be remembered that these excursions of my uncle had taken place
nearly forty years ago, before unprincipled traders had carried whiskey
into the country and robbed the Indians in every possible way. The native
Indian seems to have been the soul of honor. But now how changed!
contaminated by vagabond white men.

Our company had about a dozen horses and mules. We rode the horses and the
well packed mules carried our luggage. We had also a light two horse
spring wagon. Behold us, then, three of us, mounted in half Spanish
saddles, with our rifles in front lying crossways between our persons and
the horn of the saddle. The never-failing revolver and hunting knife were
in our belts. The young man drove the wagon which contained many of our
most valuable effects.

It was without much thought that we set out on the emigrant trail to
California, a distance of about three thousand miles. As on our journey we
were one day descending the hills into the valley of the Platte river,
near a place called Ash Hollow, our keen-eyed Indian boy exclaimed, "I see
Indians." Looking around with a rapid glance and seeing nothing, I said,
"I think not." "Yes," he replied, "there certainly are Indians," and
pointed to some specks far away before us, on the meadows which skirted
the stream.

Sure