1830. Sublette's camp commenced moving back to the east side of the
Rocky Mountains in October. Its course was up Henry's fork of the Snake
River, through the North Pass to Missouri Lake, in which rises the
Madison fork of the Missouri River. The beaver were very plenty on
Henry's fork, and our young trapper had great success in making up his
packs; having learned the art of setting his traps very readily. The
manner in which the trapper takes his game is as follows:--
He has an ordinary steel trap weighing five pounds, attached to a chain
five feet long, with a swivel and ring at the end, which plays round
what is called the _float_, a dry stick of wood, about six feet long.
The trapper wades out into the stream, which is shallow, and cuts with
his knife a bed for the trap, five or six inches under water. He then
takes the float out the whole length of the chain in the direction of
the centre of the stream, and drives it into the mud, so fast that the
beaver cannot draw it out; at the same time tying the other end by a
thong to the bank. A small stick or twig, dipped in musk or castor,
serves for bait, and is placed so as to hang directly above the trap,
which is now set. The trapper then throws water plentifully over the
adjacent bank to conceal any foot prints or scent by which the beaver
would be alarmed, and going to some distance wades out of the stream.
In setting a trap, several things are to be observed with care:--first,
that the trap is firmly fixed, and the proper distance from the
bank--for if the beaver can get on shore with the trap, he will cut off
his foot to escape: secondly, that the float is of dry wood, for should
it not be, the little animal will cut it off at a stroke, and swimming
with the trap to the middle of the dam, be drowned by its weight. In the
latter case, when the hunter visits his traps in the morning, he is
under the necessity of plunging into the water and swimming out to dive
for the missing trap, and his game. Should the morning be frosty and
chill, as it very frequently is in the mountains, diving for traps is
not the pleasantest exercise. In placing the bait, care must be taken to
fix it just where the beaver in reaching it will spring the trap. If the
bait-stick be placed high, the hind foot of the beaver will be caught:
if low, his fore foot.
The manner in which the beavers make their dam, and construct their
lodge, has long been reckoned among the wonders of the animal creation;
and while some observers have claimed for the little creature more
sagacity than it really possesses, its instinct is still sufficiently
wonderful. It is certainly true that it knows how to keep the water of a
stream to a certain level, by means of an obstruction; and that it cuts
down trees for the purpose of backing up the water by a dam. It is not
true, however, that it can always fell a tree in the direction required
for this purpose. The timber about a beaver dam is felled in all
directions; but as trees that grow near the water, generally lean
towards it, the tree, when cut, takes the proper direction by
gravitation alone. The beaver then proceeds to cut up the fallen timber
into lengths of about three feet, and to convey them to the spot where
the dam is to be situated, securing them in their places by means of mud
and stones. The work is commenced when the water is low, and carried on
as it rises, until it has attained the desired height. And not only is
it made of the requisite height and strength, but its shape is suited
exactly to the nature of the stream in which it is built. If the water
is sluggish the dam is straight; if rapid and turbulent, the barrier is
constructed of a convex form, the better to resist the action of the
water.
[Illustration: BEAVER-DAM.]
When the beavers have once commenced a dam, its extent and thickness are
continually augmented, not only by their labors, but by accidental
accumulations; thus accommodating itself to the size of the growing
community. At length, after a lapse of many years, the water being
spread over a considerable tract, and filled up by yearly accumulations
of drift-wood and earth, seeds take root in the new made ground, and the
old beaver-dams become green meadows, or thickets of cotton-wood and
willow.
The food on which the beaver subsists, is the bark of the young trees in
its neighborhood; and when laying up a winter store, the whole community
join in the labor of selecting, cutting up, and carrying the strips to
their store-houses under water. They do not, as some writers have
affirmed, when cutting wood for a dam strip off the bark and store it in
their lodges for winter consumption; but only carry under water the
stick with the bark on.
"The beaver has two incisors and eight molars in each jaw; and
empty hollows where the canine teeth might be. The upper pair of
cutting teeth extend far into the jaw, with a curve of rather more
than a semicircle; and the lower pair of incisors form rather less
than a semicircle. Sometimes, one of these teeth gets broken and
then the opposite tooth continues growing until it forms a nearly
complete circle. The chewing muscle of the beaver is strengthened
by tendons in such a way as to give it great power. But more is
needed to enable the beaver to eat wood. The insalivation of the
dry food is provided for by the extraordinary size of the salivary
glands.
"Now, every part of these instruments is of vital importance to the
beavers. The loss of an incisor involves the formation of an
obstructive circular tooth; deficiency of saliva renders the food
indigestible; and when old age comes and the enamel is worn down
faster than it is renewed, the beaver is not longer able to cut
branches for its support. Old, feeble and poor, unable to borrow,
and ashamed to beg, he steals cuttings, and subjects himself to the
penalty assigned to theft. Aged beavers are often found dead with
gashes in their bodies, showing that they have been killed by their
mates. In the fall of 1864, a very aged beaver was caught in one of
the dams of the Esconawba River, and this was the reflection of a
great authority on the occasion, one Ah-she-goes, an Ojibwa
trapper: 'Had he escaped the trap he would have been killed before
the winter was over, by other beavers, for stealing cuttings.'
"When the beavers are about two or three years old, their teeth are
in their best condition for cutting. On the Upper Missouri, they
cut the cotton tree and the willow bush; around Hudson's Bay and
Lake Superior, in addition to the willow they cut the poplar and
maple, hemlock, spruce and pine. The cutting is round and round,
and deepest upon the side on which they wish the tree to fall.
Indians and trappers have seen beavers cutting trees. The felling
of a tree is a family affair. No more than a single pair with two
or three young ones are engaged at a time. The adults take the
cutting in turns, one gnawing and the other watching; and
occasionally a youngster trying his incisors. The beaver whilst
gnawing sits on his plantigrade hind legs, which keep him
conveniently upright. When the tree begins to crackle the beavers
work cautiously, and when it crashes down they plunge into the
pond, fearful lest the noise should attract an enemy to the spot.
After the tree-fall, comes the lopping of the branches. A single
tree may be winter provision for a family. Branches five or six
inches thick have to be cut into proper lengths for transport, and
are then taken home."
The lodge of a beaver is generally about six feet in diameter, on the
inside, and about half as high. They are rounded or dome-shaped on the
outside, with very thick walls, and communicate with the land by
subterranean passages, below the depth at which the water freezes in
winter. Each lodge is made to accommodate several inmates, who have
their beds ranged round the walls, much as the Indian does in his tent.
They are very cleanly, too, and after eating, carry out the sticks that
have been stripped, and either use them in repairing their dam, or throw
them into the stream below.
During the summer months the beavers abandon their lodges, and disport
themselves about the streams, sometimes going on long journeys; or if
any remain at home, they are the mothers of young families. About the
last of August the community returns to its home, and begins
preparations for the domestic cares of the long winter months.
An exception to this rule is that of certain individuals, who have no
families, make no dam, and never live in lodges, but burrow in
subterranean tunnels. They are always found to be males, whom the French
trappers call "les parasseux," or idlers; and the American trappers,
"bachelors." Several of them are sometimes found in one abode, which the
trappers facetiously denominate "bachelor's hall." Being taken with less
difficulty than the more domestic beaver, the trapper is always glad to
come upon their habitations.
The trapping season is usually in the spring and autumn. But should the
hunters find it necessary to continue their work in winter, they capture
the beaver by sounding on the ice until an aperture is discovered, when
the ice is cut away and the opening closed up. Returning to the bank,
they search for the subterranean passage, tracing its connection with
the lodge; and by patient watching succeed in catching the beaver on
some of its journeys between the water and the land. This, however, is
not often resorted to when the hunt in the fall has been successful; or
when not urged by famine to take the beaver for food.
"Occasionally it happens," says Captain Bonneville, "that several
members of a beaver family are trapped in succession. The survivors then
become extremely shy, and can scarcely be "brought to medicine," to use
the trappers' phrase for "taking the bait." In such case, the trapper
gives up the use of the bait, and conceals his traps in the usual paths
and crossing places of the household. The beaver being now completely
"up to trap," approaches them cautiously, and springs them, ingeniously,
with a stick. At other times, he turns the traps bottom upwards, by the
same means, and occasionally even drags them to the barrier, and
conceals them in the mud. The trapper now gives up the contest of
ingenuity, and shouldering his traps, marches off, admitting that he is
not yet "up to beaver."
Before the camp moved from the forks of the Snake River, the haunting
Blackfeet made their appearance openly. It was here that Meek had his
first battle with that nation, with whom he subsequently had many a
savage contest. They attacked the camp early in the morning, just as the
call to turn out had sounded. But they had miscalculated their
opportunity: the design having evidently been to stampede the horses and
mules, at the hour and moment of their being turned loose to graze. They
had been too hasty by a few minutes, so that when they charged on the
camp pell-mell, firing a hundred guns at once, to frighten both horses
and men, it happened that only a few of the animals had been turned out,
and they had not yet got far off. The noise of the charge only turned
them back to camp.
In an instant's time, Fitzpatrick was mounted, and commanding the men to
follow, he galloped at headlong speed round and round the camp, to drive
back such of the horses as were straying, or had been frightened from
their pickets. In this race, two horses were shot under him; but he
escaped, and the camp-horses were saved. The battle now was to punish
the thieves. They took their position, as usual with Indian fighters, in
a narrow ravine; from whence the camp was forced to dislodge them, at a
great disadvantage. This they did do, at last, after six hours of hard
fighting, in which a few men were wounded, but none killed. The thieves
skulked off, through the canyon, when they found themselves defeated,
and were seen no more until the camp came to the woods which cover the
western slope of the Rocky Mountains.
But as the camp moved eastward, or rather in a northeasterly direction,
through the pine forests between Pierre's Hole and the head-waters of
the Missouri, it was continually harrassed by Blackfeet, and required a
strong guard at night, when these marauders delighted to make an attack.
The weather by this time was very cold in the mountains, and chilled the
marrow of our young Virginian. The travel was hard, too, and the
recruits pretty well worn out.
One cold night, Meek was put on guard on the further side of the camp,
with a veteran named Reese. But neither the veteran nor the youngster
could resist the approaches of "tired Nature's sweet restorer," and went
to sleep at their post of duty. When, during the night, Sublette came
out of his tent and gave the challenge--"All's well!" there was no
reply. To quote Meek's own language, "Sublette came round the horse-pen
swearing and snorting. He was powerful mad. Before he got to where Reese
was, he made so much noise that he waked him; and Reese, in a loud
whisper, called to him, 'Down, Billy! Indians!' Sublette got down on his
belly mighty quick. 'Whar? whar?' he asked.
"'They were right there when you hollered so,' said Reese.
"'Where is Meek?' whispered Sublette.
"'He is trying to shoot one,' answered Reese, still in a whisper.
"Reese then crawled over to whar I war, and told me what had been said,
and informed me what to do. In a few minutes I crept cautiously over to
Reese's post, when Sublette asked me how many Indians had been thar, and
I told him I couldn't make out their number. In the morning a pair of
Indian moccasins war found whar Reese _saw the Indians_, which I had
_taken care to leave there_; and thus confirmed, our story got us the
credit of vigilance, instead of our receiving our just dues for neglect
of duty."
It was sometime during the fall hunt in the Pine Woods, on the west side
of the Rocky Mountains, that Meek had one of his earliest adventures
with a bear. Two comrades, Craig and Nelson, and himself, while out
trapping, left their horses, and traveled up a creek on foot, in search
of beaver. They had not proceeded any great distance, before they came
suddenly face to face with a red bear; so suddenly, indeed, that the men
made a spring for the nearest trees. Craig and Meek ascended a large
pine, which chanced to be nearest, and having many limbs, was easy to
climb. Nelson happened to take to one of two small trees that grew close
together; and the bear, fixing upon him for a victim, undertook to climb
after him. With his back against one of these small trees, and his feet
against the other, his bearship succeeded in reaching a point not far
below Nelson's perch, when the trees opened with his weight, and down
he went, with a shock that fairly shook the ground. But this bad luck
only seemed to infuriate the beast, and up he went again, with the same
result, each time almost reaching his enemy. With the second tumble he
was not the least discouraged; but started up the third time, only to be
dashed once more to the ground when he had attained a certain height. At
the third fall, however, he became thoroughly disgusted with his want of
success, and turned and ran at full speed into the woods.
"Then," says Meek, "Craig began to sing, and I began to laugh; but
Nelson took to swearing. 'O yes, you can laugh and sing now,' says
Nelson; 'but you war quiet enough when the bear was around.' 'Why,
Nelson,' I answered, 'you wouldn't have us noisy before that
distinguished guest of yours?' But Nelson damned the wild beast; and
Craig and I laughed, and said he didn't seem wild a bit. That's the way
we hector each other in the mountains. If a man gets into trouble he is
only laughed at: 'let him keep out; let him have better luck,' is what
we say."
The country traversed by Sublette in the fall of 1829, was unknown at
that period, even to the fur companies, they having kept either farther
to the south or to the north. Few, if any, white men had passed through
it since Lewis and Clarke discovered the head-waters of the Missouri and
the Snake Rivers, which flow from the opposite sides of the same
mountain peaks. Even the toils and hardships of passing over mountains
at this season of the year, did not deprive the trapper of the enjoyment
of the magnificent scenery the region afforded. Splendid views, however,
could not long beguile men who had little to eat, and who had yet a long
journey to accomplish in cold, and surrounded by dangers, before
reaching the wintering ground.
In November the camp left Missouri Lake on the east side of the
mountains, and crossed over, still northeasterly, on to the Gallatin
fork of the Missouri River, passing over a very rough and broken
country. They were, in fact, still in the midst of mountains, being
spurs of the great Rocky range, and equally high and rugged. A
particularly high mountain lay between them and the main Yellowstone
River. This they had just crossed, with great fatigue and difficulty,
and were resting the camp and horses for a few days on the river's bank,
when the Blackfeet once more attacked them in considerable numbers. Two
men were killed in this fight, and the camp thrown into confusion by the
suddenness of the alarm. Capt. Sublette, however, got off, with most of
his men, still pursued by the Indians.
Not so our Joe, who this time was not in luck, but was cut off from
camp, alone, and had to flee to the high mountains overlooking the
Yellowstone. Here was a situation for a nineteen-year-old raw recruit!
Knowing that the Blackfeet were on the trail of the camp, it was death
to proceed in that direction. Some other route must be taken to come up
with them; the country was entirely unknown to him; the cold severe; his
mule, blanket, and gun, his only earthly possessions. On the latter he
depended for food, but game was scarce; and besides, he thought the
sound of his gun would frighten himself, so alone in the wilderness,
swarming with stealthy foes.
Hiding his mule in a thicket, he ascended to the mountain top to take a
view of the country, and decide upon his course. And what a scene was
that for the miserable boy, whose chance of meeting with his comrades
again was small indeed! At his feet rolled the Yellowstone River,
coursing away through the great plain to the eastward. To the north his
eye follows the windings of the Missouri, as upon a map, but playing at
hide-and-seek in amongst the mountains. Looking back, he saw the River
Snake stretching its serpentine length through lava plains, far away, to
its junction with the Columbia. To the north, and to the south, one
white mountain rose above another as far as the eye could reach. What a
mighty and magnificent world it seemed, to be alone in! Poor Joe
succumbed to the influence of the thought, and wept.
Having indulged in this sole remaining luxury of life, Joe picked up his
resolution, and decided upon his course. To the southeast lay the Crow
country, a land of plenty,--as the mountain-man regards plenty,--and
there he could at least live; provided the Crows permitted him to do so.
Besides, he had some hopes of falling in with one of the camps, by
taking that course.
Descending the mountain to the hiding-place of his mule, by which time
it was dark night, hungry and freezing, Joe still could not light a
fire, for fear of revealing his whereabouts to the Indians; nor could he
remain to perish with cold. Travel he must, and travel he did, going he
scarcely knew whither. Looking back upon the terrors and discomforts of
that night, the veteran mountaineer yet regards it as about the most
miserable one of his life. When day at length broke, he had made, as
well as he could estimate the distance, about thirty miles. Traveling on
toward the southeast, he had crossed the Yellowstone River, and still
among the mountains, was obliged to abandon his mule and accoutrements,
retaining only one blanket and his gun. Neither the mule nor himself had
broken fast in the last two days. Keeping a southerly course for twenty
miles more, over a rough and elevated country, he came, on the evening
of the third day, upon a band of mountain sheep. With what eagerness did
he hasten to kill, cook, and eat! Three days of fasting was, for a
novice, quite sufficient to provide him with an appetite.
Having eaten voraciously, and being quite overcome with fatigue, Joe
fell asleep in his blanket, and slumbered quite deeply until morning.
With the morning came biting blasts from the north, that made motion
necessary if not pleasant. Refreshed by sleep and food, our traveler
hastened on upon his solitary way, taking with him what sheep-meat he
could carry, traversing the same rough and mountainous country as
before. No incidents nor alarms varied the horrible and monotonous
solitude of the wilderness. The very absence of anything to alarm was
awful; for the bravest man is wretchedly nervous in the solitary
presence of sublime Nature. Even the veteran hunter of the mountains can
never entirely divest himself of this feeling of awe, when his single
soul comes face to face with God's wonderful and beautiful handiwork.
At the close of the fourth day, Joe made his lonely camp in a deep
defile of the mountains, where a little fire and some roasted mutton
again comforted his inner and outer man, and another night's sleep still
farther refreshed his wearied frame. On the following morning, a very
bleak and windy one, having breakfasted on his remaining piece of
mutton, being desirous to learn something of the progress he had made,
he ascended a low mountain in the neighborhood of his camp--and behold!
the whole country beyond was smoking with the vapor from boiling
springs, and burning with gasses, issuing from small craters, each of
which was emitting a sharp whistling sound.
When the first surprise of this astonishing scene had passed, Joe began
to admire its effect in an artistic point of view. The morning being
clear, with a sharp frost, he thought himself reminded of the city of
Pittsburg, as he had beheld it on a winter morning, a couple of years
before. This, however, related only to the rising smoke and vapor; for
the extent of the volcanic region was immense, reaching far out of
sight. The general face of the country was smooth and rolling, being a
level plain, dotted with cone-shaped mounds. On the summits of these
mounds were small craters from four to eight feet in diameter.
Interspersed among these, on the level plain, were larger craters, some
of them from four to six miles across. Out of these craters issued blue
flames and molten brimstone.
For some minutes Joe gazed and wondered. Curious thoughts came into his
head, about hell and the day of doom. With that natural tendency to
reckless gayety and humorous absurdities which some temperaments are
sensible of in times of great excitement, he began to soliloquize. Said
he, to himself, "I have been told the sun would be blown out, and the
earth burnt up. If this infernal wind keeps up, I shouldn't be surprised
if the sun war blown out. If the earth is _not_ burning up over thar,
then it is that place the old Methodist preacher used to threaten me
with. Any way it suits me to go and see what it's like."
On descending to the plain described, the earth was found to have a
hollow sound, and seemed threatening to break through. But Joe found the
warmth of the place most delightful, after the freezing cold of the
mountains, and remarked to himself again, that "if it war hell, it war a
more agreeable climate than he had been in for some time."
He had thought the country entirely desolate, as not a living creature
had been seen in the vicinity; but while he stood gazing about him in
curious amazement, he was startled by the report of two guns, followed
by the Indian yell. While making rapid preparations for defence and
flight, if either or both should be necessary, a familiar voice greeted
him with the exclamation, "It _is_ old Joe!" When the adjective "old" is
applied to one of Meek's age at that time, it is generally understood to
be a term of endearment. "My feelings you may imagine," says the "old
Uncle Joe" of the present time, in recalling the adventure.
Being joined by these two associates, who had been looking for him, our
traveler, no longer simply a raw recruit, but a hero of wonderful
adventures, as well as the rest of the men, proceeded with them to camp,
which they overtook the third day, attempting to cross the high
mountains between the Yellowstone and the Bighorn Rivers. If Meek had
seen hard times in the mountains alone, he did not find them much
improved in camp. The snow was so deep that the men had to keep in
advance, and break the road for the animals; and to make their condition
still more trying, there were no provisions in camp, nor any prospect of
plenty, for men or animals, until they should reach the buffalo country
beyond the mountains.
During this scarcity of provisions, some of those amusing incidents took
place with which the mountaineer will contrive to lighten his own and
his comrades' spirits, even in periods of the greatest suffering. One
which we have permission to relate, has reference to what Joe Meek calls
the "meanest act of his life."
While the men were starving, a negro boy, belonging to Jedediah Smith,
by some means was so fortunate as to have caught a porcupine, which he
was roasting before the fire. Happening to turn his back for a moment,
to observe something in camp, Meek and Reese snatched the tempting
viand and made off with it, before the darkey discovered his loss. But
when it was discovered, what a wail went up for the embezzled porcupine!
Suspicion fixed upon the guilty parties, but as no one would 'peach on
white men to save a "nigger's" rights, the poor, disappointed boy could
do nothing but lament in vain, to the great amusement of the men, who
upon the principle that "misery loves company," rather chuckled over
than condemned Meek's "mean act."
There was a sequel, however, to this little story. So much did the negro
dwell upon the event, and the heartlessness of the men towards him, that
in the following summer, when Smith was in St. Louis, he gave the boy
his freedom and two hundred dollars, and left him in that city; so that
it became a saying in the mountains, that "the nigger got his freedom
for a porcupine."
During this same march, a similar joke was played upon one of the men
named Craig. He had caught a rabbit and put it up to roast before the
fire--a tempting looking morsel to starving mountaineers. Some of his
associates determined to see how it tasted, and Craig was told that the
Booshways wished to speak with him at their lodge. While he obeyed this
supposed command, the rabbit was spirited away, never more to be seen by
mortal man. When Craig returned to the camp-fire, and beheld the place
vacant where a rabbit so late was nicely roasting, his passion knew no
bounds, and he declared his intention of cutting it out of the stomach
that contained it. But as finding the identical stomach which contained
it involved the cutting open of many that probably did not, in the
search, he was fain to relinquish that mode of vengeance, together with
his hopes of a supper. As Craig is still living, and is tormented by the
belief that he knows the man who stole his rabbit, Mr. Meek takes this
opportunity of assuring him, upon the word of a gentleman, that _he_ is
not the man.
While on the march over these mountains, owing to the depth of the snow,
the company lost a hundred head of horses and mules, which sank in the
yet unfrozen drifts, and could not be extricated. In despair at their
situation, Jedediah Smith one day sent a man named Harris to the top of
a high peak to take a view of the country, and ascertain their position.
After a toilsome scramble the scout returned.
"Well, what did you see, Harris?" asked Smith anxiously.
"I saw the city of St. Louis, and one fellow taking a drink!" replied
Harris; prefacing the assertion with a shocking oath.
Smith asked no more questions. He understood by the man's answer that he
had made no pleasing discoveries; and knew that they had still a weary
way before them to reach the plains below. Besides, Smith was a
religious man, and the coarse profanity of the mountaineers was very
distasteful to him. "A very mild man, and a christian; and there were
very few of them in the mountains," is the account given of him by the
mountaineers themselves.
The camp finally arrived without loss of life, except to the animals, on
the plains of the Bighorn River, and came upon the waters of the
Stinking Fork, a branch of this river, which derives its unfortunate
appellation from the fact that it flows through a volcanic tract similar
to the one discovered by Meek on the Yellowstone plains. This place
afforded as much food for wonder to the whole camp, as the former one
had to Joe; and the men unanimously pronounced it the "back door to that
country which divines preach about." As this volcanic district had
previously been seen by one of Lewis and Clarke's men, named Colter,
while on a solitary hunt, and by him also denominated "hell," there must
certainly have been something very suggestive in its appearance.
If the mountains had proven barren, and inhospitably cold, this hot and
sulphurous country offered no greater hospitality. In fact, the fumes
which pervaded the air rendered it exceedingly noxious to every living
thing, and the camp was fain to push on to the main stream of the
Bighorn River. Here signs of trappers became apparent, and spies having
been sent out discovered a camp of about forty men, under Milton
Sublette, brother of Captain William Sublette, the same that had been
detached the previous summer to hunt in that country. Smith and Sublette
then cached their furs, and moving up the river joined the camp of M.
Sublette.
The manner of caching furs is this: A pit is dug to a depth of five or
six feet in which to stand. The men then drift from this under a bank of
solid earth, and excavate a room of considerable dimensions, in which
the furs are deposited, and the apartment closed up. The pit is then
filled up with earth, and the traces of digging obliterated or
concealed. These caches are the only storehouses of the wilderness.
While the men were recruiting themselves in the joint camp, the alarm of
"Indians!" was given, and hurried cries of "shoot! shoot!" were uttered
on the instant. Captain Sublette, however, checked this precipitation,
and ordering the men to hold, allowed the Indians to approach, making
signs of peace. They proved to be a war party of Crows, who after
smoking the pipe of peace with the Captain, received from him a present
of some tobacco, and departed.
As soon as the camp was sufficiently recruited for traveling, the united
companies set out again toward the south, and crossed the Horn mountains
once more into Wind River Valley; having had altogether, a successful
fall hunt, and made some important explorations, notwithstanding the
severity of the weather and the difficulty of mountain traveling. It was
about Christmas when the camp arrived on Wind River, and the cold
intense. While the men celebrated Christmas, as best they might under
the circumstances, Capt. Sublette started to St. Louis with one man,
Harris, called among mountain-men Black Harris, on snowshoes, with a
train of pack-dogs. Such was the indomitable energy and courage of this
famous leader!