trapped there all winter with splendid success, but trapping being so good they stayed too late in the spring. One morning about the last days of April, after they had just eaten their breakfast and were making preparations to go to look after their traps, they were attacked by about one hundred Blackfoot Indians. Reese was killed the first shot, and Jim then saw that his only show was to run, which he did. It was about sunrise when they made the attack. Jim Beckwith fled, with the Indians in hot pursuit. It was claimed to be one hundred miles from there to Fort Hall, and that same evening, before dark, he was in Fort Hall, and he went all the way on foot.
In this run Beckwith burst the veins in his legs in numerous places, making him a cripple for life. The last time I saw him was at his own home, near Denver, Colo., in 1863. At that time he was so badly crippled that he had to walk with two canes, and after telling me the condition he was in, he showed me a number of running sores that were caused by the bursted veins. For Jim Beckwith, now dead and gone, I will say, he was a hero in his day. For bravery he was far above the average, and at the same time he was honorable and upright. He was a man whose word was as good as gold, and one who was possessed of great strength and had a constitution equal to that of a mustang. The worst thing that could be said of Jim Beckwith was that he was his own worst enemy, for he would spend his money for whiskey as fast as he earned it.
Uncle Kit, Jim Bridger and myself wintered on the waters of the Green river and trapped, but had very poor
