We passed Fort Laramie in the night, and on the seventh morning out we found ourselves in the Black Hills, with Laramie Peak at our elbow (apparently) looming vast and solitary—­a deep, dark, rich indigo blue in hue, so portentously did the old colossus frown under his beetling brows of storm-cloud.  He was thirty or forty miles away, in reality, but he only seemed removed a little beyond the low ridge at our right.  We breakfasted at Horse-Shoe Station, six hundred and seventy-six miles out from St. Joseph.  We had now reached a hostile Indian country, and during the afternoon we passed Laparelle Station, and enjoyed great discomfort all the time we were in the neighborhood, being aware that many of the trees we dashed by at arm’s length concealed a lurking Indian or two.  During the preceding night an ambushed savage had sent a bullet through the pony-rider’s jacket, but he had ridden on, just the same, because pony-riders were not allowed to stop and inquire into such things except when killed.  As long as they had life enough left in them they had to stick to the horse and ride, even if the Indians had been waiting for them a week, and were entirely out of patience.  About two hours and a half before we arrived at Laparelle Station, the keeper in charge of it had fired four times at an Indian, but he said with an injured air that the Indian had “skipped around so’s to spile everything—­and ammunition’s blamed skurse, too.”  The most natural inference conveyed by his manner of speaking was, that in “skipping around,” the Indian had taken an unfair advantage.

The coach we were in had a neat hole through its front—­a reminiscence of its last trip through this region.  The bullet that made it wounded the driver slightly, but he did not mind it much.  He said the place to keep a man “huffy” was down on the Southern Overland, among the Apaches, before the company moved the stage line up on the northern route.  He said the Apaches used to annoy him all the time down there, and that he came as near as anything to starving to death in the midst of abundance, because they kept him so leaky with bullet holes that he “couldn’t hold his vittles.”

This person’s statement were not generally believed.

We shut the blinds down very tightly that first night in the hostile Indian country, and lay on our arms.  We slept on them some, but most of the time we only lay on them.  We did not talk much, but kept quiet and listened.  It was an inky-black night, and occasionally rainy.  We were among woods and rocks, hills and gorges—­so shut in, in fact, that when we peeped through a chink in a curtain, we could discern nothing.  The driver and conductor on top were still, too, or only spoke at long intervals, in low tones, as is the way of men in the midst of invisible dangers.  We listened to rain-drops pattering on the roof; and the grinding of the wheels through the muddy gravel; and the low wailing of the wind; and all the time we had that absurd sense upon