I was returning
home empty-handed from a bear hunt, when night overtook me in a lonely
spot near a mountain stream. I had killed two sage-hens and built a
little fire over which to broil them before my night's rest.
Suddenly I heard a horse whinny farther up the stream. Thinking
instantly of Indians, I ran quickly to my own horse to prevent him from
answering the call, and thus revealing my presence.
Filled with uneasiness as to who and what my human neighbors might be,
I resaddled my horse, and, leaving him tied where I could reach him in
a hurry if need be, made my way up-stream to reconnoiter. As I came
around a bend I received an unpleasant shock. Not one horse, but
fifteen horses, were grazing just ahead of me.
On the opposite side of the creek a light shone high up the mountain
bank--a light from the window of a dugout. I drew near very cautiously
till I came within, sound of voices within the place, and discovered
that its occupants were conversing in my own language. That relieved
me. I knew the strangers to be white men. I supposed them to be
trappers, and, walking boldly to the door, I knocked.
Instantly the voices ceased. There ensued absolute silence for a space,
and then came-whisperings, and sounds of men quietly moving about the
dirt floor.
"Who's there?" called someone.
"A friend and a white man," I replied.
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