iends,
and often to be awakened by the quick sharp bark of the cayote, the
howling of the grey wolf, or what is far worse, the almost infernal
war-whoop of the Indian.

My orders to each man, in case of an attack, were not to rise. The guard
also, as they came inside the circle of pack saddles, were to throw
themselves flat on the ground. Those that were in their blankets were to
roll over on their stomachs, and then when they saw an Indian to 'blaze
away.' When we were on the line and expected trouble, we would build a
fire and at dark, after supper, move away slowly for one or two miles, and
lie down without any fires, and in this way cheat Mr. Indian.

Sometimes after working all day we were obliged to fight for our lives all
the latter part of the night; for this is the time which the Indian
chooses for his fighting, as a general rule. Notwithstanding these
apparent drawbacks, I must say that the life of a mountain man or trapper,
had ever indescribable charms for me.

And now in conclusion, let me give you an account of my last Indian fight,
which happened in the year 1859, on the Colorado river, near what is now
called Fort Mohave. At that time the Indians in that region had seen but
few white men, and they had obtained but about half a dozen old guns. I,
having surveyed a large portion of the country previously, was chosen to
act as guide to Colonel Hoffman, who was to be escorted by fifty dragoons
from Fort Tejou, near Los Angelos, to Fort Yuma. I, not then being
acquainted with the country upon the Colorado river down to the fort, the
celebrated scout and trapper Joe Walker, was to go with us, to act as
guide after we had passed through that portion of the country with which I
was acquainted.

Joe was a tall, large man, six feet high and weighing over two hundred
pounds. We slept together in the same blankets, and many a night have I
laid awake, listening to his stories of fights with the Indians and his
hair-breadth escapes.

I shall pass rapidly over our journey across the mountains and along the
valley of the Mohave river. Away we go across Soda Lake, which is dry, and
the surface of which as far northward as the eye can extend, is covered
with saleratus, white as the driven snow. If you should see at a distance
anything coming towards you, it would seem to approach bottom upwards; if
an animal, the feet would be in the air.

But on we go to the Granite springs, thence we pass on to Piyute Creek.
Slow