On arrival at Fort Fetterman, 90 miles from Rock Creek station, the coach drew up at a loghouse of greater pretensions than those upon the prairie. I had letters of introduction from General McDowell (who was Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Coast) to Colonel Gentry, who commanded Fort Fetterman, and Major Powell of the same station.
Not wishing to drive up to the door of his private house, we alighted at the log-hut which represented the inn. The room was horridly dirty, the floor was sanded, and there was a peculiar smell of bad drink, and an expression of depravity about the establishment.
The host was a tall man, attired as usual in a flannel shirt and trousers, with a belt and revolver. He had evidently observed an expression of disgust upon our faces, as he exclaimed, "Well, I guess we ain't fixed up for ladies; and p'r'aps it's as well that you came to-day instead of last night, if you ain't fond of shooting affairs. You were just looking at that table and thinking the tablecover was a bit dirty, weren't you? Well, last night Dick and Bill got to words over their cards, and before Dick could get out his six-shooter, young Bill was too quick and resolute, and he put two bullets through him just across this table, and he fell over it on his face, and never spoke a word. It's a good job too that Dick's got it at last."
This little incident was quite in harmony with the appearance of the den. I knew that letters had been previously forwarded from San Francisco to the Commandant, therefore I strolled towards his quarters, to leave my card and letter of introduction.
Fort Fetterman is not a fort, but merely an open station, with a frontier guard of one company of troops. I met Colonel Gentry, who was, very kindly, on his way towards the inn to meet us on arrival. Upon my inquiring respecting the fatal quarrel across the table, he informed me that he had held an inquest, and buried the man that morning.
The deceased was a notorious character, and he would assuredly have shot his younger antagonist, had he not been the quicker of the two in drawing his pistol.
This was a satisfactory termination to a dispute concerning cards, and there was a total absence of any false sentiment upon the part of the commonsense authority.
We were most hospitably entertained by Major and Mrs. Powell, to whose kind care we were committed by Colonel Gentry, who, being a bachelor, had no accommodation for ladies. It was very delightful, in the centre of a prairie wilderness, to meet with ladies, and to hear the rich contralto voice of Miss Powell, their daughter of eighteen, who promised to be a singer much above the average.
On the following morning we started for Powder River, 92 miles from Fort Fetterman; there was no public conveyance, as Powder River station had been abandoned since the Indians had been driven back, and confined to their reservation lands. We were bound by invitation to the cattle ranche of Mr. R. Frewen and his brother Mr. Moreton Frewen; these gentlemen had an establishment at Powder River, although their house was 22 miles distant upon the other side, in the centre of their ranche. They had very kindly sent a four-wheeled open carriage for us; one of those conveyances that are generally known as American waggons, with enormously high wheels of cobweb-like transparency. Jem Bourne had been sent as our conductor, having been engaged as my head man.
There was nothing but prairie throughout this uninteresting journey, enlivened now and then by a few antelopes.