and, if a Southern migration, the sable cohort forming its sure accompaniment, all combine to form a tableau that once seen will ever be remembered.

And just such a picture was that presented by the migrating party of Mississippi planters en route for far California. It was a “caravan” of the smaller kind—only six wagons in all—with eight or ten white men for its escort. The journey was full of danger, and they knew this who had undertaken it. But their characters had hindered them from increasing their number; and, in the case of more than one, the danger left behind was almost as much dreaded as any that might be before them.

They were following one of the old “trails” of the traders, at that time becoming used by the emigrants, and especially those from the South-western States. It was the route running up the Arkansas to Bent’s Fort, and thence striking northward along the base of the Rocky Mountains to the pass known as “Bridger’s.”

At that time the pass and the trails on both sides of it were reported “safe.” That is, safe by comparison. The Indians had been awed by a sight unusual to them—the passage through their territory of large bodies of United States troops—Doniphan’s expedition to New Mexico, with those of Cooke and Kearney to California. For a short interval it had restrained them from their attacks upon the traders’ caravan—even from the assassination of the lonely trapper.

As none of Blackadder’s party was either very brave, or very reckless, they were proceeding with very great caution, keeping scouts in the advance by day, and guards around their camps by night.

And thus, watchful and wary, had they reached Bent’s Fort, in safety. Thence an Indian hunter who chanced to be hanging around the fort—a Choctaw who spoke a little English—was engaged to conduct them northward to the Pass; and, resuming their journey under his guidance, they had reached Bijou Creek, a tributary of the Platte, and one of the most beautiful streams of prairie-land.

They had formed their encampment for the night, after the fashion practised upon the prairies—with the wagons locked tongue and wheel, inclosing a hollow space—the corral—so called after a word brought by the prairie-merchants from New Mexico. (Note 1.)

The travellers were more than usually cheerful. The great chain of the Rocky Mountains was in sight, with Long’s Peak raising its snow-covered summit, like a vast beaconing star to welcome, and show them the way, into the land of promise that lay beyond it.

They expected, moreover, to reach Saint Vrain’s Fort, by the evening of the next day; where, safe from Indian attack, and relieved from camp watching, they could once more rest and recruit themselves.

But in that hour of relaxation, while they were looking at Long’s Peak, its snowy crown still gilded by the rays of the setting sun, there was a cloud coming from that same quarter that threatened to overwhelm them.

It was not the darkening of the night, nor mist from the mountain-sides; but a dusky shadow more to be feared than either.

They had no fear of it. They neither saw, nor knew of its existence; and, as they gathered around their camp-fire to make their evening repast, they were as gay as such men might be expected to be, under similar circumstances.

To many of them it was the last meal they were ever destined to eat; as was that night the last of their lives. Before another sun had shone upon Long’s Peak, one-half their number was sleeping the sleep of death—their corralled wagons enclosing a space afterward to become their cemetery.

Note 1. The Spanish word for inclosure, adopted at an early period by the prairie-traders, and now become part of our language.