We soon discovered, in the twilight, a band of fifty or sixty horses approaching the fort.  These were the animals belonging to the establishment; who having been sent out to feed, under the care of armed guards, in the meadows below, were now being driven into the corral for the night.  A little gate opened into this inclosure; by the side of it stood one of the guards, an old Canadian, with gray bushy eyebrows, and a dragoon pistol stuck into his belt; while his comrade, mounted on horseback, his rifle laid across the saddle in front of him, and his long hair blowing before his swarthy face, rode at the rear of the disorderly troop, urging them up the ascent.  In a moment the narrow corral was thronged with the half-wild horses, kicking, biting, and crowding restlessly together.

The discordant jingling of a bell, rung by a Canadian in the area, summoned us to supper.  This sumptuous repast was served on a rough table in one of the lower apartments of the fort, and consisted of cakes of bread and dried buffalo meat—­an excellent thing for strengthening the teeth.  At this meal were seated the bourgeois and superior dignitaries of the establishment, among whom Henry Chatillon was worthily included.  No sooner was it finished, than the table was spread a second time (the luxury of bread being now, however, omitted), for the benefit of certain hunters and trappers of an inferior standing; while the ordinary Canadian engages were regaled on dried meat in one of their lodging rooms.  By way of illustrating the domestic economy of Fort Laramie, it may not be amiss to introduce in this place a story current among the men when we were there.

There was an old man named Pierre, whose duty it was to bring the meat from the storeroom for the men.  Old Pierre, in the kindness of his heart, used to select the fattest and the best pieces for his companions.  This did not long escape the keen-eyed bourgeois, who was greatly disturbed at such improvidence, and cast about for some means to stop it.  At last he hit on a plan that exactly suited him.  At the side of the meat-room, and separated from it by a clay partition, was another compartment, used for the storage of furs.  It had no other communication with the fort, except through a square hole in the partition; and of course it was perfectly dark.  One evening the bourgeois, watching for a moment when no one observed him, dodged into the meat-room, clambered through the hole, and ensconced himself among the furs and buffalo robes.  Soon after, old Pierre came in with his lantern; and, muttering to himself, began to pull over the bales of meat, and select the best pieces, as usual.  But suddenly a hollow and sepulchral voice proceeded from the inner apartment:  “Pierre!  Pierre!  Let that fat meat alone!  Take nothing but lean!” Pierre dropped his lantern, and bolted out into the fort, screaming, in an agony of terror, that the devil was in the storeroom; but tripping on the threshold, he pitched over upon the gravel,