“Dear Sir: On the tenth of April, 1859, I was on my way from Fort Owen, Bitter Root Valley, to Salt Lake City. My party consisted of one American named James Misinger, a Frenchman called ‘Grand Maison,’ a French half-breed named Antoine, and three Indians.
“I had crossed the Snake River just above Fort Hall, pitched my lodge, and was entering to indulge in a brief sleep, when I heard some one outside ask in a loud tone of voice, ‘Who owns this shebang?’ Stepping to the door and looking out, I saw a tall, cadaverous, sunken-eyed man standing over me, dressed in a dirty, dilapidated coat and shirt and drawers, and moccasins so worn that they could scarcely be tied to his feet. Having invited him in and inquired his business, he told me substantially the following:
“His name was Boone Helm. In company with five others he had left Dalles City, Oregon, in October, 1858, intending to go to Camp Floyd, Utah Territory. Having reached the Raft River, they were attacked by a party of Digger Indians, with whom they maintained a running fight for several miles, but none of the party was killed or severely wounded. Late in the evening they reached the Bannack River, where they camped, picketed their horses near by, and stationed two sentinels. During the night one of the sentinels was killed, the savage who committed the deed escaping on a horse belonging to the party.
“Upon consultation, it was decided that they had better leave that place as soon as possible. The sky at the time was overcast with storm-clouds, and soon after they got into their saddles the weather culminated in a snowstorm, which increased in violence until it became terrific. Finally, being unable to see anything but sheets of snow, they became bewildered, and knew not in what direction they were proceeding. Morning brought no relief. In the midst of an ocean of snow, they were as oblivious of locality in daylight as if total darkness had encompassed them. They knew they were somewhere between Ross’s Fork and the Bear River, and this was their most definite knowledge.
“At last they reached Soda Springs on Bear River, where familiar landmarks came in view. They then travelled up that river until they reached Thomas’s Fork, where they were forced to stop, from the lean and exhausted condition of their horses and the depth of the snow. Here they found a very comfortable cabin, and perforce went into winter quarters.
“Their provisions soon being all gone they commenced subsisting on their horses, killing one after another, until they had eaten them all but a celebrated race-horse which had been valued on the Upper Columbia at over a thousand dollars. Seeing now that they must all perish unless they soon reached a point where supplies could be obtained, the race-horse had to share the fate of the others. His meat was ‘jerked’ or hastily dried, that they might the more conveniently carry it on their backs. They then made snowshoes of the hides of the horses, and started back towards, and aimed to reach, Fort Hall, where they supposed they would meet with human beings of some kind, white men, half-breeds, or Indians.
“The party kept together until they had got beyond Soda Springs, where some had become so exhausted they could scarcely travel,—and their meat getting frightfully small in amount, Helm and a man named Burton concluded not to endanger their own lives by waiting for the wearied ones, so they left them behind.
“The two finally reached the Snake River, and moved down it in search of Fort Hall, having nothing to eat but the prickly-pear plant. When they had reached the site of Cantonment Loring, Burton, starving, weary, and snow-blind, was unable to proceed; and a good vacant house being there, Helm left him, and continued on for Fort Hall.
“Reaching the fort, he found it without an occupant. He then returned and reached Burton about dark. When out in the willows hard by, procuring firewood, he heard the report of a pistol. Running back into the house, he found Burton had committed suicide by shooting himself. He then concluded to try and find his way into Salt Lake Valley. Cutting off, well up in the thigh, Burton’s remaining leg (he had eaten the other), he rolled the limb up in an old red flannel shirt, tied it across his shoulder, and started.
“About eight miles out he met an Indian going in his lodge. He entreated the savage to take him along; but the Indian said he had nothing himself to eat, and that his family were starving. Helm exhibited handfuls of gold coin, when the Indian consented to his accompanying him.