Soon after my return to Salt Creek Valley I decided on another and, I thought, a better way to make a fortune for myself and my family.

During my stay in and about Fort Laramie I had seen much of the Indian traders, and accompanied them on a number of expeditions.  Their business was to sell to the Indians various things they needed, chiefly guns and ammunition, and to take in return the current Indian coin, which consisted of furs.

With the supplies bought by the money I had earned on the trip with Simpson, mother and my sisters were fairly comfortable.  I felt that I should be able to embark in the fur business on my own account—­not as a trader but as a trapper.

With my friend Dave Harrington as a companion I set out.  Harrington was older than I, and had trapped before in the Rockies.  I was sure that with my knowledge of the Plains and his of the ways of the fur-bearing animals, we should form an excellent partnership, as in truth we did.

We bought a yoke of oxen, a wagon-sheet, wagon, traps of all sorts, and strychnine with which to poison wolves.  Also we laid in a supply of grub—­no luxuries, but coffee, flour, bacon and everything that we actually needed to sustain life.

We headed west, and about two hundred miles from home we struck Prairie Creek, where we found abundant signs of beaver, mink, otter and other fur-bearing animals.  No Indians had troubled us, and we felt safe in establishing headquarters here and beginning work.  The first task was to build a dugout in a hillside, which we roofed with brush, long grass, and finally dirt, making everything snug and cozy.  A little fireplace in the wall served as both furnace and kitchen.  Outside we built a corral for the oxen, which completed our camp.

Our trapping was successful from the start, and we were sure that prosperity was at last in sight.

We set our steel traps along the “runs” used by the animals, taking great care to hide our tracks, and give the game no indication of the presence of an enemy.  The pelts began to pile up in our shack.  Most of the day we were busy at the traps, or skinning and salting the hides, and at night we would sit by our little fire and swap experiences till we fell asleep.  Always there was the wail of the coyotes and the cries of other animals without, but as long as we saw no Indians we were not worried.

One night, just as we were dozing off, we heard a tremendous commotion in the corral.  Harrington grabbed his gun and hurried out.  He was just in time to see a big bear throw one of our oxen and proceed with the work of butchering him.

He fired, and the bear, slightly wounded, left the ox and turned his attention to his assailant.  He was leaping at my partner, growling savagely when I, gun in hand, rounded the corner of the shack.  I took the best aim I could get in the dark, and the bear, which was within a few feet of my friend, rolled over dead.