About two o’clock in the afternoon, my horse having become tired, and myself being rather weary, I shot a sage-hen, and dismounting, I unsaddled my horse and tied him to a small tree, where he could easily feed on the mountain grass.  I then built a little fire, and broiling the chicken and seasoning it with salt and pepper, which I had obtained from my saddle-bags, I soon sat down to a “genuine square meal,” which I greatly relished.

After resting for a couple of hours, I remounted and resumed my upward trip to the mountains, having made up my mind to camp out that night rather than go back without a bear, which my friends knew I had gone out for.  As the days were growing short, night soon came on, and I looked around for a suitable camping place.  While thus engaged, I scared up a flock of sage-hens, two of which I shot, intending to have one for supper and the other for breakfast.

By this time it was becoming quite dark, and I rode down to one of the little mountain streams, where I found an open place in the timber suitable for a camp.  I dismounted, and after unsaddling my horse and hitching him to a tree, I prepared to start a fire.  Just then I was startled by hearing a horse whinnying further up the stream.  It was quite a surprise to me, and I immediately ran to my animal to keep him from answering, as horses usually do in such cases.  I thought that the strange horse might belong to some roaming band of Indians, as I knew of no white men being in that portion of the country at that time.  I was certain that the owner of the strange horse could not be far distant, and I was very anxious to find out who my neighbor was, before letting him know that I was in his vicinity.  I therefore re-saddled my horse, and leaving him tied so that I could easily reach him I took my gun and started out on a scouting expedition up the stream.  I had gone about four hundred yards when, in a bend of the stream, I discovered ten or fifteen horses grazing.

On the opposite side of the creek a light was shining high up the mountain bank.  Approaching the mysterious spot as cautiously as possible, and when within a few yards of the light—­which I discovered came from a dug-out in the mountain side—­I heard voices, and soon I was able distinguish the words, as they proved to be in my own language.  Then I knew that the occupants of the dug-out, whence the voices proceeded, were white men.  Thinking that they might be a party of trappers, I boldly walked up to the door and knocked for admission.  The voices instantly ceased, and for a moment a deathlike silence reigned inside.  Then there seemed to follow a kind of hurried whispering—­a sort of consultation—­and then some one called out:  “Who’s there?”

“A friend and a white man,” I replied.

The door opened, and a big, ugly-looking fellow stepped, forth and said: 

“Come in.”

I accepted the invitation with some degree of fear and hesitation, which I endeavored to conceal, as I saw that it was too late to back out, and that it would never do to weaken at that point, whether they were friends or foes.  Upon entering the dug-out my eyes fell upon eight as rough and villainous looking men as I ever saw in my life.  Two of them I instantly recognized as teamsters who had been driving in Lew Simpson’s train, a few months before, and had been discharged.