Paul was favored with fairly good weather after the cyclone and in a few days ran into Bismarck, where he was welcomed and entertained on board the Northern Pacific transfer boat, by Captain Wolfolk. He was joined there by the correspondent of the New York Herald, Mr. James Creelman, who was sent out by that paper to accompany him the rest of the way and write up the Indian country.
After a brief rest at Bismarck, Boyton continued his course down the muddy river followed by Mr. Creelman in a canvas canoe. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not start until afternoon, in deference to friends in the town, and they had not proceeded many miles until night came on and camp was struck on a muddy bar. They were under way at sunrise next morning, and all day the river ran through a lonely country. Ranges of buttes stretched away from the banks until they were lost in the distance and from every gully, purling streams flashed their clear waters into the yellow of the river. The banks were blushing with the glory of autumn and vines hung among the trees like curtains of the richest pattern. Game was utterly fearless until frightened away from the water's edge by a blast from the bugle or a shot. A bar was utilized for a camp that night and at ten o'clock next morning, the white tepees of an Indian village were seen, and piles of wood along the river indicated the approach to some settlement. On rounding a great bend, Fort Yates and the Standing Rock Agency were sighted. Paul was warmly received by the officers of the Fort and entertained in the most hospitable manner. Among the notorious Indian chiefs whom Boyton met at Standing Rock, were Rain-in-the-Face, Gaul, Low Dog, Long Soldier, the young chief Flying-By and others.
On the morning of October 5th, they resumed the journey, the banks being crowded with soldiers and Indians to see them start. After passing an Indian village a few miles below Fort Yates, the country through which the river twisted and turned, again assumed a lonely aspect. Mile after mile was passed without the faintest sign of civilization. Sand bars divided the river into five or six different channels and it required careful paddling to avoid the countless snags which stuck out of the water, sullen and threatening. The shores were strewn with driftwood,—logs that had floated from far up the river; red willow and cottonwood trees that had been gnawed from their roots by beavers; horns and bones of wild animals and the countless ingredients of drift piles were heaped on all sides. Amid all this desolation the Big Muddy flowed, making fresh ruins at every turn. That night camp was pitched on the bank and a wild goose was the leading feature on the supper bill of fare. The next day proved another lonesome one. Not a single habitation on the rusty hills that rose on either side and hid the fertile country beyond. Toward evening a ranch was sighted and they landed to test the hospitality of its proprietor, who proved to be a squaw man, the name applied to white men who marry Indian women. The travelers were cautiously received and finally invited to remain over night, on condition that they furnished their own provisions. Several comely half breed children sat around the room while supper was being prepared by a good-looking Indian squaw. Noting the inquiring looks of Boyton and his companion, the rancher said:
"Yes, them's my children and that's my wife. She cost me a tidy bit, too. I gave up a durned good horse fur that squaw."
"How long have you been married to her?" inquired Paul.
"Wall, I ain't been married very long to this 'un. I had another almighty good lookin' one, that I lived with some years; but she got tired workin' an' run away to the tribe. This un's a good cook an a hard worker."
Supper was announced by the woman, who spoke to her husband in the Indian tongue, as she had not acquired English. The travelers and the master of the ranch sat at a small table, while the woman and the children retreated to a dark corner near the fire, where they ate.
"Will not your wife eat with us?" politely inquired Boyton.
"Eat with us!" exclaimed the rancher in breathless astonishment, "I shud say not. Do you think I'd eat with a durned Indian?"
After breakfast next morning, the travelers again took to the river, the squaw man extending an invitation to drop in on him again if they ever chanced up that way. As they passed below the mouth of Grand river, the scenery began to change. Instead of grassy buttes, the prairies were crowned with clay hills, riven as though by volcanic action and the river flowed under huge cliffs of a peculiar slate color. Wild vines twined their tendrils over shores ancient and fossilized, that were trod by tribes whose camp fires had burned out before Columbus ever dreamed of the new world. About four miles below Grand river, on a bluish cliff that shot out in the water almost at right angles, they landed and found many beautiful specimens of petrifaction—fish retaining their prismatic beauty of exterior. The mother of pear-like shells of the extinct anomite lay about as though the place had once been the bed of a mighty ocean. The shore was covered with agates and looked gray and instead of mud sucks, there were pebbly beaches for some distance. Sometimes a bank that had been eaten away by the water, would exhibit strata of clay and soil so variegated in color that they resembled vast cameos. At many places the soil was rich and black for six or seven feet deep, showing its wonderful agricultural properties, while here and there the alkali deposits seemed like frost work. The storms had eaten some of the massive cliffs into forms of castles and there were galleries of arches and columns sculptured by the rain, stretching for miles on either side. At nightfall the scene was ghostly and imagination easily peopled the dark galleries with strange images.