The first move was to
secure the horses. Some were gone; others were struggling, and kicking,
and trembling, for there was a horrible uproar of whoops, and yells, and
firearms. Several trappers stole quietly from the camp, and succeeded
in driving in the horses which had broken away; the rest were tethered
still more strongly. A breastwork was thrown up of saddles, baggage,
and camp furniture, and all hands waited anxiously for daylight. The
Indians, in the meantime, collected on a neighboring height, kept up
the most horrible clamor, in hopes of striking a panic into the camp, or
frightening off the horses. When the day dawned, the trappers attacked
them briskly and drove them to some distance. A desultory fire was kept
up for an hour, when the Indians, seeing nothing was to be gained, gave
up the contest and retired. They proved to be a war party of Blackfeet,
who, while in search of the Crow tribe, had fallen upon the trail of
Captain Bonneville on the Popo Agie, and dogged him to the Bighorn; but
had been completely baffled by his vigilance. They had then waylaid the
present detachment, and were actually housed in perfect silence within
their fort, when the mule of the trapper made such a dead point.
The savages went off uttering the wildest denunciations of hostility,
mingled with opprobrious terms in broken English, and gesticulations of
the most insulting kind.
In this melee, one white man was wounded, and two horses were killed.
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