sand feet, arose the grim Black Hills.

We tried to ford Laramie Creek at a point nearly opposite the fort, but
the stream, swollen with the rains in the mountains, was too rapid. We
passed up along its bank to find a better crossing place. Men gathered
on the wall to look at us. "There's Bordeaux!" called Henry, his face
brightening as he recognized his acquaintance; "him there with the
spyglass; and there's old Vaskiss, and Tucker, and May; and, by George!
there's Cimoneau!" This Cimoneau was Henry's fast friend, and the only
man in the country who could rival him in hunting.

We soon found a ford. Henry led the way, the pony approaching the bank
with a countenance of cool indifference, bracing his feet and sliding
into the stream with the most unmoved composure.

At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow

We followed; the water boiled against our saddles, but our horses bore
us easily through. The unfortunate little mules came near going down
with the current, cart and all; and we watched them with some solicitude
scrambling over the loose round stones at the bottom, and bracing
stoutly against the stream. All landed safely at last; we crossed a
little plain, descended a hollow, and riding up a steep bank found
ourselves before the gateway of Fort Laramie, under the impending
blockhouse erected above it to defend the entrance.

CHAPTER IX

SCENES AT FORT LARAMIE

Looking back, after the expiration of a year, upon Fort Laramie and its
inmates, they seem less like a reality than like some fanciful picture
of the olden time; so different was the scene from any which this tamer
side of the world can present. Tall Indians, enveloped in their white
buffalo robes, were striding across the area or reclining at full length
on the low roofs of the buildings which inclosed it. Numerous squaws,
gayly bedizened, sat grouped in front of the apartments they occupied;
their mongrel offspring, restless and vociferous, rambled in every
direction through the fort; and the trappers, traders, and ENGAGES of
the establishment were busy at their labor or their amusements.

We were met at the gate, but by no means cordially welcomed. Indeed,
we seemed objects of some distrust and suspicion until Henry Chatillon
explained that we were not traders, and we, in confirmation, handed to
the bourgeois a letter of introduction from his principals. He took
it, turned it upside down, and