It was a hot chase. The red men fired again and again at the fleeing trapper but they could not hit him. His mustang leaped over the deep crevasses, dodged badger and prairie-dog holes, and brought him safely to the camp of his companions by two o’clock in the afternoon. The Sioux had given up the chase, and, little suspecting that other trappers were camped near by, had returned to the siege of the four, hoping now to make one sudden rush and gain their scalps. Their blood was up, for twenty-five of their number had fallen before the accurate fire of the besieged.
“Come at once!” cried the panting Bridger, as he reached the camp of the plainsmen. “If you do not hurry, my four companions will all be massacred by the red men. To horse! To horse!”
It did not take the trappers long to catch their ponies and jump into their saddles.
“Show us where your friends are!” cried they, “and we’ll fix th’ redskins before another sun.”
Bridger turned and piloted the band of plainsmen back to the place where he had left his beleaguered companions. They went on the run, but, making a wide détour in order to gain the sand-hills in the rear of the besiegers, waited until morning. Then they heard rifle shots in the distance and knew that the battle was on again.
Creeping towards the sound of firing, they soon saw the Sioux preparing for a final charge upon the valorous four, and opened upon them. They had clustered together for a rush, and this weltering volley fairly took the heart out of those of small courage. Many fell dead,—the rest made all haste to get out of range,—while the four trappers in the embankment came running towards their deliverers like wild men. With yells of joy they hugged the burly form of Jim Bridger, to whose nerve and courage they owed their lives.
The scout and plainsman soon moved from the upper waters of the Missouri—after the fur trade had ceased to be prosperous—and founded a trading post in the southwestern part of the State of Wyoming—named Fort Bridger. Here he dealt in skins, furs, and peltries, accumulating a large amount of property, as the Fort was a stopping-place for all the emigrant trains bound for Salt Lake City and for California. He remained true to his Blackfoot wife, and several half-breed children made life merry in the long, low log-hut which the scout had erected as his abode. The famous plainsman lived to a ripe, old age—like most of the early trappers—and was ever ready to tell of his battle with the Sioux, when he rescued his four companions from their clutches. This was the most thrilling of all his many adventures upon the frontier.