Early in the morning of the 19th we were in motion, fearing that that day might bring the greatest trial of our lives. Right on the divide we met about fifteen old men, women and children, but none that could draw the bow in battle were there. The interpreter, who was well versed in Indian policies and tactics, said:
"There, boys, that tells the story—not a warrior here and these are sent off out of danger."
We came out into the valley about 2 o'clock very still, slow and cautious, but saw no signs of life near. We had to ride hard so that, if possible, we might get across the valley unobserved. We succeeded, and just as the sun was setting we reached a little basin or valley among low hills on our old trail, where there was a fine spring of water. We looked carefully all over the country behind us as we left the valley, but saw no signs of life except many smokes.
Our hearts nearly came to a standstill as we turned the ridge down into the little basin, at the sight of seven Indians on the run for the water. We had to have the right of water even if necessary to fight for it; and we started on the run. The ground was so open that we could see no point of advantage the Indians could gain by getting to water first, so we rode more leisurely and we came together at the spring.
As they appeared in every motion to be friendly, we dismounted, threw off our saddles and packs as though we were at home, never forgetting to keep our eyes open and revolvers handy. The first thing to test their friendship was to smoke—if they would smoke with us they would talk, and if they would talk we could be friends and learn something.
When the oldest man had smoked, he asked in astonishment how we got there.
The interpreter said: "We rode here on our horses."
"Yes," said the old man, "I saw you do that; but what road did you come?"
He was told, and replied:
"That is the only way you could come."