After we had got everything nicely fixed up in our new quarters, Johnnie West one evening got down his sachel, took out a book and sat and read till bed time.  The following evening when he took the book up again, I asked him what he was reading, and he said, “Robinson Crusoe.”  I asked him why he did not read aloud so the rest of us could hear, and he did read aloud until bed time.  I told him I would give anything if I could read as he did.  So he said if I would try to learn, he would teach me to read that winter as good as he could.  I assured him there would be nothing lacking on my part, so the next night I took my first lesson.  At that time I did not know all the letters, but I was determined to learn to read.  In a very short time I had learned all my letters, and being possessed of a great memory, I learned very fast, and Johnnie, seeing I was so determined in the matter, spared no pains in teaching me, and by the next spring I could read Robinson Crusoe myself.  Having a start, I could learn of my own accord, and to Johnnie West I am greatly indebted for the limited education I now possess; and were he now living I could not express to him my gratitude for his labors as my tutor in that lonely wilderness, hundreds of miles from any white man’s habitation.  And, although my education is quite limited, yet what little I do possess has been of great value to me through life.

We had good success trapping this winter, until about the first of January, when we had an unusual heavy fall of snow in the mountains which drove all the game to the lowlands, nothing being left that was fit for meat except a few mountain sheep, and the snow made it very inconvenient getting around to attend to the traps.  In the latter part of February I asked Charlie Jones one day to go down to Mountain Phil’s camp and see if there was anything that he wanted, as we had kept all the extra supplies at our camp.  Mountain Phil and his Klooch—­that being the name he called his squaw, which is also the Arapahoe name for wife—­were staying alone about ten miles further down the country from where we were located.

On Charlie Jones’ return, he said:  “It seems that Mountain Phil has been faring better than any of us, for he has been able to kill his meat at camp, thereby saving him the trouble of having to get out and hunt for it.”

Johnnie and I did not understand what he meant by this.  So, after hesitating a moment, Jones said:  “Boys, if I should tell you what I know about Mountain Phil, you would not believe it, but as sure as you live he has killed his squaw and eaten most of her, and he has left his camp.”

We insisted that he must be mistaken, but he declared that he was not, saying he had seen the bones in the cabin, and further investigation had developed the fact that he had beyond any doubt killed and eaten his Indian wife.

From that time on, Mountain Phil went by the name of the American Cannibal until his death, which was—­if my memory serves me right—­in 1863 or ’64, at Virginia City, Mont.