Fitzpatrick was a hardy and experienced mountaineer, and knew all the
passes and defiles. As he was pursuing his lonely course up the Green
River valley, he described several horsemen at a distance, and came to
a halt to reconnoitre. He supposed them to be some detachment from the
rendezvous, or a party of friendly Indians. They perceived him, and
setting up the war-whoop, dashed forward at full speed: he saw at once
his mistake and his peril--they were Blackfeet. Springing upon his
fleetest horse, and abandoning the other to the enemy, he made for
the mountains, and succeeded in escaping up one of the most dangerous
defiles. Here he concealed himself until he thought the Indians had gone
off, when he returned into the valley. He was again pursued, lost his
remaining horse, and only escaped by scrambling up among the cliffs. For
several days he remained lurking among rocks and precipices, and almost
famished, having but one remaining charge in his rifle, which he kept
for self-defence.

In the meantime, Sublette and Campbell, with their fellow traveller,
Wyeth, had pursued their march unmolested, and arrived in the Green
River valley, totally unconscious that there was any lurking enemy at
hand. They had encamped one night on the banks of a small stream, which
came down from the Wind River Mountains, when about midnight, a band
of Indians burst upon their camp, with horrible yells and whoops, and
a discharge of guns and arrows. Happily no other harm was done than
wounding one mule, and causing several horses to break loose from their
pickets. The camp was instantly in arms; but the Indians retreated with
yells of exultation, carrying off several of the horses under cover of
the night.

This was somewhat of a disagreeable foretaste of mountain life to some