Both camps, the Indians’ and our own, broke up on the morning of the 1st of July.  I was so weak that the aid of a potent auxiliary, a spoonful of whisky swallowed at short intervals, alone enabled me to sit on my hardy little mare Pauline through the short journey of that day.  For half a mile before us and half a mile behind, the prairie was covered far and wide with the moving throng of savages.  The barren, broken plain stretched away to the right and left, and far in front rose the gloomy precipitous ridge of the Black Hills.  We pushed forward to the head of the scattered column, passing the burdened travaux, the heavily laden pack horses, the gaunt old women on foot, the gay young squaws on horseback, the restless children running among the crowd, old men striding along in their white buffalo robes, and groups of young warriors mounted on their best horses.  Henry Chatillon, looking backward over the distant prairie, exclaimed suddenly that a horseman was approaching, and in truth we could just discern a small black speck slowly moving over the face of a distant swell, like a fly creeping on a wall.  It rapidly grew larger as it approached.

“White man, I b’lieve,” said Henry; “look how he ride!  Indian never ride that way.  Yes; he got rifle on the saddle before him.”

The horseman disappeared in a hollow of the prairie, but we soon saw him again, and as he came riding at a gallop toward us through the crowd of Indians, his long hair streaming in the wind behind him, we recognized the ruddy face and old buckskin frock of Jean Gras the trapper.  He was just arrived from Fort Laramie, where he had been on a visit, and said he had a message for us.  A trader named Bisonette, one of Henry’s friends, was lately come from the settlements, and intended to go with a party of men to La Bonte’s Camp, where, as Jean Gras assured us, ten or twelve villages of Indians would certainly assemble.  Bisonette desired that we would cross over and meet him there, and promised that his men should protect our horses and baggage while we went among the Indians.  Shaw and I stopped our horses and held a council, and in an evil hour resolved to go.

For the rest of that day’s journey our course and that of the Indians was the same.  In less than an hour we came to where the high barren prairie terminated, sinking down abruptly in steep descent; and standing on these heights, we saw below us a great level meadow.  Laramie Creek bounded it on the left, sweeping along in the shadow of the declivities, and passing with its shallow and rapid current just below us.  We sat on horseback, waiting and looking on, while the whole savage array went pouring past us, hurrying down the descent and spreading themselves over the meadow below.  In a few moments the plain was swarming with the moving multitude, some just visible, like specks in the distance, others still passing on, pressing down, and fording the stream with bustle and confusion.  On the edge of the heights sat half a dozen of the elder warriors, gravely smoking and looking down with unmoved faces on the wild and striking spectacle.