however, furnishing a strong saddle horse for my gun, and finding I could get the bullet moulds for it, gave me an Indian saddle for that. I had just completed my trade when other members of the Saunders party drove up, ours closely following. What I observed here in the next few minutes greatly surprised me.
As our train drove up to the gate of the stockade more people came out from the establishment than I supposed could he housed there. I had been inside twice and had seen but a couple of rough mountain men, one of whom told me he was a hatter by trade and pursued his calling there from foundation principles, catching his own fur-bearing animals or using the fine hair of the wolf. Among the many others I had not yet seen was Pegleg Smith, a man widely known as one of the most reckless of his class—the Rocky-mountain men. He was now neatly dressed in navy blue, and would have been judged a steamboat captain in Saint Louis. Having heard of him from my friend Clark, who had seen him while visiting relatives in Missouri, I was wondering over his neat appearance, when a Catholic priest came out, and Mr. Smith passed before him, lifting his hat and receiving a few low spoken words which I supposed was such a blessing as would be given on a feast day in the City of Mexico.
Reverend Father Cave, a Baptist minister, was asking Captain Grant if the land around the fort would not respond to cultivation with crops. Mr. Grant said he could not tell; it had not been tried, to his knowledge. Father Cave declared his conviction that with irrigation it would yield rich harvests. He then asked whether we could get to the Columbia River with wagons. Grant's reply was, in substance: "Mr. Cave, it's no use my answering your question. It's just about a year since a lot of people came here just as you have done and asked me the
