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.  They killed two horses from Jim Bridger’s string and wounded Uncle Kit in one shoulder severely.

When the thunder storm came up the Indians were gradually closing in on us, and it commenced to thunder and lightning, and it actually rained so hard that one person could not see another two rods before him.

While it was raining so hard, we mounted and rode out of the canyon.

I never saw it rain harder in my life than it did for a half hour.  When we were on open ground and it had quit raining, we stopped, and Uncle Kit said:  “Now who says the Almighty didn’t save us this time by sending that shower of rain just at the right time?”

That night we camped near the summit of the Rocky Mountains, dividing the waters that run into the Pacific and Atlantic oceans.  Uncle Kit suffered all that night from his arrow wound, the arrow going under his shoulder blade, and when we examined the wound we found it much deeper than we had any idea of.  This was the last trouble with Indians on that trip.

The next morning we started very early, and were three days making Fort Hall, having no trouble whatever on the way.  On arriving at the Fort we were very much disappointed in regard to raising our crowd to go to the head of the Missouri river to trap the coming winter.  There were only about twenty trappers at Fort Hall at that time, and they appeared to have no particular objections to living a little while longer.  Those of them who had never interviewed the Blackfoot and Crow Indians personally were pretty well acquainted with them by reputation, and they said they did not care to risk their lives in that country.  We remained here two weeks, after which time—­Uncle Kit’s wound getting considerable better—­Jim Bridger, Uncle Kit and myself concluded to go on to the waters of Green river and trap the coming winter.