About the middle of July we arrived at Fort Bridger, where we were to
turn off upon the California trail, and where, if Ellen's advice had
been followed, this story of mine would have begun.
Why it should be called _Fort_ Bridger I fail to understand, for there
are no signs of a fort about, but only three or four miserable log huts
in which live two fur traders with their trappers and hunters.
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One might have believed it quite an important place, however, because
when we arrived there were no less than five hundred Indians of the
Snake tribe encamped round about the log huts. Beyond them on every
hand could be seen wagon train after wagon train of people who had come
not only from Pike County, but from Ohio and Indiana, as well as from
Illinois and Missouri, the greater number intent on gaining the Oregon
country, with perhaps two hundred who were going to California.
Of course there were also at this place hunters and trappers, traders
coming from or going into Oregon or California, Spaniards, Negroes, and
red men, the greater number of all this throng living in canvas tents,
in wagons or log huts, while the rest made shift as best they might in
the open air.
It was, like Fort Laramie, a place where Ellen and I had best remain
in the wagons, for no one could tell what the savages might do if two
girls wandered among their lodges, and certainly we had no desire to
make their acquaintance.
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Here, as everywhere since leaving Independence, we heard that song
which by this time had grown threadbare,--
"My name it is Joe Bowers."
The Negroes and the Spaniards, the trappers and the hunters, were all
singing it, and the wonder to Ellen and me was where so many people
could have heard it.
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