Let it be remembered that these excursions of my uncle had taken place nearly forty years ago, before unprincipled traders had carried whiskey into the country and robbed the Indians in every possible way.  The native Indian seems to have been the soul of honor.  But now how changed! contaminated by vagabond white men.

Our company had about a dozen horses and mules.  We rode the horses and the well packed mules carried our luggage.  We had also a light two horse spring wagon.  Behold us, then, three of us, mounted in half Spanish saddles, with our rifles in front lying crossways between our persons and the horn of the saddle.  The never-failing revolver and hunting knife were in our belts.  The young man drove the wagon which contained many of our most valuable effects.

It was without much thought that we set out on the emigrant trail to California, a distance of about three thousand miles.  As on our journey we were one day descending the hills into the valley of the Platte river, near a place called Ash Hollow, our keen-eyed Indian boy exclaimed, “I see Indians.”  Looking around with a rapid glance and seeing nothing, I said, “I think not.”  “Yes,” he replied, “there certainly are Indians,” and pointed to some specks far away before us, on the meadows which skirted the stream.

Sure enough, there was a band of Indians quite distinctly discernible.  My uncle looked at them for a moment quite intently and in silence.  Then he said: 

“Boys! there is a band of Indians on the war-path.  I wish you to obey my instructions exactly.  Do not stop your riding animals or the team.  Keep straight ahead, unless I tell you to halt.  Do not fire a shot unless I fire first.  Then take deliberate aim and kill as many as you can before you go under.”

“Go under!” this was the almost invariable phrase, in the language of the mountains, for death.  I well remember my thoughts as we neared them.  It was indeed a formidable looking band of Aripaho Indians, hideously painted, and looking more like demons than men, armed for a fight.  They were all mounted, and each warrior carried in his hand a long spear and a strong shield, impervious to arrows, made of rawhide.  Their bows and arrows were slung to their backs.  To my inexperienced eye they seemed incarnate fiends.  We had met several small bands of Indians before, but no war party like this.

When we had approached within a few hundred yards of each other, my uncle said: 

“Boys! do not forget what I have told you.”

Then pressing his large Mexican spurs into the sides of his horse, he darts away towards them upon the full gallop, at the same time shouting something in the Indian language which I did not understand.  Their ranks opened and he rode into the centre and instantly dismounted.  There was the chief on a splendid charger.  He also alighted, and for a moment both were concealed from our view, buried as it were, within the ranks of the plumed warriors.  They were, as we afterwards ascertained, fraternally embracing each other.  Both remounted their horses, the ranks opened again and they two, my uncle and the chief, rode out upon the full run towards us as our little cavalcade were steadily pressing forward on the trail.