our clothes had burst into rags and tatters; and what was worse, we had very little means of renovation.  Fort Laramie was but seven miles before us.  Being totally averse to appearing in such plight among any society that could boast an approximation to the civilized, we soon stopped by the river to make our toilet in the best way we could.  We hung up small looking-glasses against the trees and shaved, an operation neglected for six weeks; we performed our ablutions in the Platte, though the utility of such a proceeding was questionable, the water looking exactly like a cup of chocolate, and the banks consisting of the softest and richest yellow mud, so that we were obliged, as a preliminary, to build a cause-way of stout branches and twigs.  Having also put on radiant moccasins, procured from a squaw of Richard’s establishment, and made what other improvements our narrow circumstances allowed, we took our seats on the grass with a feeling of greatly increased respectability, to wait the arrival of our guests.  They came; the banquet was concluded, and the pipe smoked.  Bidding them adieu, we turned our horses’ heads toward the fort.

An hour elapsed.  The barren hills closed across our front, and we could see no farther; until having surmounted them, a rapid stream appeared at the foot of the descent, running into the Platte; beyond was a green meadow, dotted with bushes, and in the midst of these, at the point where the two rivers joined, were the low clay walls of a fort.  This was not Fort Laramie, but another post of less recent date, which having sunk before its successful competitor was now deserted and ruinous.  A moment after the hills, seeming to draw apart as we advanced, disclosed Fort Laramie itself, its high bastions and perpendicular walls of clay crowning an eminence on the left beyond the stream, while behind stretched a line of arid and desolate ridges, and behind these again, towering aloft seven thousand feet, arose the grim Black Hills.

We tried to ford Laramie Creek at a point nearly opposite the fort, but the stream, swollen with the rains in the mountains, was too rapid.  We passed up along its bank to find a better crossing place.  Men gathered on the wall to look at us.  “There’s Bordeaux!” called Henry, his face brightening as he recognized his acquaintance; “him there with the spyglass; and there’s old Vaskiss, and Tucker, and May; and, by George! there’s Cimoneau!” This Cimoneau was Henry’s fast friend, and the only man in the country who could rival him in hunting.

We soon found a ford.  Henry led the way, the pony approaching the bank with a countenance of cool indifference, bracing his feet and sliding into the stream with the most unmoved composure.

     At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
     And the water broke o’er the saddle-bow

We followed; the water boiled against our saddles, but our horses bore us easily through.  The unfortunate little mules came near going down with the current, cart and all; and we watched them with some solicitude scrambling over the loose round stones at the bottom, and bracing stoutly against the stream.  All landed safely at last; we crossed a little plain, descended a hollow, and riding up a steep bank found ourselves before the gateway of Fort Laramie, under the impending blockhouse erected above it to defend the entrance.