We turned our course, somewhat, making a circuitous route, and
when we were just opposite the wick-i-ups, Jim Bridger and Uncle
Kit climbed to the top of the hill, taking my glasses with them,
and took in the situation. When they returned to where we were
they were feeling much more encouraged, saying: "Thank God we are
rid of the Blackfoots and Crows; those are the Bannocks. We are
now in their country, and they are not so numerous nor so hostile
as the Crows and Blackfoots." That night we camped on Stinking
Water, near Lone Butte, picketed our horses close around camp and
stood guard the same as the two nights previous.
The next morning we were up early and off again, aiming to cross
the main divide and go over to Fort Hall, expecting to find there
a great many trappers and raise a crowd sufficient to come back
and trap on the Gallatin river this winter.
At that time Fort Hall was a great rendezvous for trappers.
Now we were beginning to feel more encouraged and to think our
chances were pretty good, but that evening, while traveling up
Beaver Canyon, which, I think the railroad runs up now, from
Pocatello, Idaho, to Butte City, Mont., the Bannocks attacked us
about fifty strong.
They held us there for about an hour, and had it not been for a
thunder storm that came up, I don't think one of us would have got
out of that canyon, for they had us completely surrounded.
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