A Canadian came from Fort Laramie, and brought a curious piece of intelligence.  A trapper, fresh from the mountains, had become enamored of a Missouri damsel belonging to a family who with other emigrants had been for some days encamped in the neighborhood of the fort.  If bravery be the most potent charm to win the favor of the fair, then no wooer could be more irresistible than a Rocky Mountain trapper.  In the present instance, the suit was not urged in vain.  The lovers concerted a scheme, which they proceeded to carry into effect with all possible dispatch.  The emigrant party left the fort, and on the next succeeding night but one encamped as usual, and placed a guard.  A little after midnight the enamored trapper drew near, mounted on a strong horse and leading another by the bridle.  Fastening both animals to a tree, he stealthily moved toward the wagons, as if he were approaching a band of buffalo.  Eluding the vigilance of the guard, who was probably half asleep, he met his mistress by appointment at the outskirts of the camp, mounted her on his spare horse, and made off with her through the darkness.  The sequel of the adventure did not reach our ears, and we never learned how the imprudent fair one liked an Indian lodge for a dwelling, and a reckless trapper for a bridegroom.

At length The Whirlwind and his warriors determined to move.  They had resolved after all their preparations not to go to the rendezvous at La Bonte’s Camp, but to pass through the Black Hills and spend a few weeks in hunting the buffalo on the other side, until they had killed enough to furnish them with a stock of provisions and with hides to make their lodges for the next season.  This done, they were to send out a small independent war party against the enemy.  Their final determination left us in some embarrassment.  Should we go to La Bonte’s Camp, it was not impossible that the other villages would prove as vacillating and indecisive as The Whirlwinds, and that no assembly whatever would take place.  Our old companion Reynal had conceived a liking for us, or rather for our biscuit and coffee, and for the occasional small presents which we made him.  He was very anxious that we should go with the village which he himself intended to accompany.  He declared he was certain that no Indians would meet at the rendezvous, and said moreover that it would be easy to convey our cart and baggage through the Black Hills.  In saying this, he told as usual an egregious falsehood.  Neither he nor any white man with us had ever seen the difficult and obscure defiles through which the Indians intended to make their way.  I passed them afterward, and had much ado to force my distressed horse along the narrow ravines, and through chasms where daylight could scarcely penetrate.  Our cart might as easily have been conveyed over the summit of Pike’s Peak.  Anticipating the difficulties and uncertainties of an attempt to visit the rendezvous, we recalled the old proverb about “A bird in the hand,” and decided to follow the village.