We established our two camps about four miles apart, and kept our
horses in the valley between the two camps; there was an abundance
of grass, plenty of game and no end to the beaver. In fact, to
take it on the whole, it seemed that this was going to be the
loveliest place to spend the winter that we had ever struck, and
the boys were all highly elated over their new winter quarters. We
had only been in our trapping field about two weeks when Uncle Kit
went out one morning to kill a deer and to look after the horses.
He had not gone far when he looked across the little valley and
saw an Indian driving off our horses. Being in gunshot of the
Indian, he fired at him and brought him to the ground. When
Uncle Kit returned to camp, he said:
"Boys, I am afraid we have made a mistake in coming here to trap
this winter; we must be near the Blackfoot Indians, for I just
killed one that was driving our horses off, and I just happened to
see him in time to catch him with old Blackleg." At that time the
Blackfoot Indians were considered worst tribe in the entire
Northwest.
I went at once to the other camp to notify Jim Bridger and his
crowd that they might be on their guard. Bridger said he had been
expecting it, as he had seen fresh Indian sign out on the ridges
some days before, but thought it was getting so late now that they
would not give us any more trouble this winter, but that we would
have to get out early the next spring.
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