We made our bed in the center, keeping a guard out all night.  Jim Beckwith was the first man on duty, and my turn came second.  By the time I went to relieve Jim the moon was up, and he told me to keep a keen lookout in the direction of the creek, “For,” said he, “I am almost sure I saw an Indian in that direction about half an hour ago.”

Of course this put me on my guard, and I kept my eye peeled in great shape.  About my second trip around the horses I looked in the direction of the creek and thought I saw an Indian coming on all fours.

He would only come a few steps and then stop.  Being below me, I could not get him between me and the moon, so I concluded I would meet him half way.  I got down on all fours and watched him, and when he would start I would move ahead, keeping my eye on him, and when he would stop I would stop also.

This I did so that to move at the same time he did, he could not hear the noise made by me.  When I was close enough I laid flat on the ground, shut my left hand, and placing it on the ground, resting my gun on my fist, took good aim and I got him.

At the crack of my gun the whole crowd were on their feet, and a moment later were at the scene of war.  We went to the place where it lay, and beheld a very large white wolf lying there, “dead as a door nail.”

This was the first time I had ever made such a mistake, and it was some time before I heard the last of it.

The next morning when we got up, instead of being one band of Indians in sight, there were two.  We made up our minds that we had discovered the finest trapping ground in America, and had a poor show to get away from it, but we went ahead and got our breakfast, just as though there were no Indians in sight of us, but we concluded we had better leave this part of the country, so we pulled out southwest across the valley, having no trouble until we struck the West Gallatin river.

Here the beaver dams were so thick that it was difficult to find a place to cross.  After prospecting some little time, we struck on a buffalo trail crossing the river, and we concluded to cross on that trail.  I was in the lead, but did not proceed far until we saw the mud was so deep that we had to retrace our steps.  When we faced about to come back, of course I was thrown into the rear, and just as we had turned the Indians made an attack on us from the brush.  I fired four shots at them at short range with my revolver, the others firing at the same time.  Just as we were out of the brush, my favorite horse, Mexico, which was the hindmost horse in my string, was shot down, having five or six arrows in his body.  I sprang from my saddle and the other boys halted until I cut my dying horse loose from the others, which was only a second’s work, and we made a rush for the open ground, which was reached in a few jumps.  The Indians did not show themselves on the open ground, but kept hid in the brush.  We rode up and down the stream for an hour and a half, but could not find a place that we could cross for Indians and mud.  Every place we would attempt to cross, the Indians would attack us from the brush.