In a little time two men, wearing leather breeches, might have been seen riding northward and disappearing in the distance. At the same time the men from the train fell back to a respectful distance, many resting upon the ground prepared for a protracted vigil. In about three hours the riders returned, driving all the missing stock before them. The battle was declared off, and after lunch the train promptly pulled out for Green River.
Having seen the old rendezvous of Jean Lafitte, the dreaded pirate of the Gulf, situated far back near the swampy shore and protected in the rear by impenetrable canebrakes, also the bolder structure said to have been the castle of Gilles de Rais, the French Buccaneer in the Danish Islands, in the light that history and romance have thrown round them, I have endeavored in imagination to repeople them with the characters, both men and women, who once inhabited those now deserted strongholds, yet I have never pictured a band that would more perfectly suit that service nor have I ever seen a body of men who in manner and appearance were more perfectly adapted to such a vocation than the gang who infested the cabin at Ham's Fork.
[CHAPTER XXIII]
Through the Wasatch Mountains
FRED, who one afternoon had been riding in advance, was observed toward the close of the day waving his old hat and shouting, "Hurrah, here is water!" We had been traveling many hours across a desolate, barren country that lay silent and apparently lifeless beneath a bright sun, and the announcement that water was in sight was received with great satisfaction. We soon descended toward a swift-running stream, along which there strolled a solitary man, the only person we had seen during the day. He paused at the ford, awaiting our arrival.
"What stream is this?" we asked the stranger.
"Smith Fork," was the reply.
"This appears to be a good place to camp," remarked Fred.
"You'll go a long way before you find another," said the stranger as he drew nigh to our horsemen.