On the 21st, they encamped amidst high and beetling cliffs of indurated
clay and sandstone, bearing the semblance of towers, castles, churches,
and fortified cities. At a distance, it was scarcely possible to
persuade one's self that the works of art were not mingled with these
fantastic freaks of nature. They have received the name of Scott's
Bluffs, from a melancholy circumstance. A number of years since, a party
were descending the upper part of the river in canoes, when their frail
barks were overturned and all their powder spoiled. Their rifles being
thus rendered useless, they were unable to procure food by hunting
and had to depend upon roots and wild fruits for subsistence. After
suffering extremely from hunger, they arrived at Laramie's Fork, a small
tributary of the north branch of the Nebraska, about sixty miles above
the cliffs just mentioned. Here one of the party, by the name of Scott,
was taken ill; and his companions came to a halt, until he should
recover health and strength sufficient to proceed. While they were
searching round in quest of edible roots, they discovered a fresh trail
of white men, who had evidently but recently preceded them. What was to
be done? By a forced march they might overtake this party, and thus be
able to reach the settlements in safety. Should they linger, they might
all perish of famine and exhaustion. Scott, however, was incapable of
moving; they were too feeble to aid him forward, and dreaded that such
a clog would prevent their coming up with the advance party.
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