As we have never seen a description of these semi-civilized men, that in youth had left their native countries, and found themselves thousands of miles away, in the midst of the Rocky Mountains, surrounded on all sides by wild, roving bands of savages, cut off from communication with civilization, except by the annual return of the fur company's traders, or occasional wandering to some distant trading-post, a thousand or five hundred miles from the borders of any State or settlement, we will at this time introduce to the reader several men as we found them at this American rendezvous, most of them finding their way eventually into the settlement of Oregon, and becoming active and prominent men in the organization of the provisional government, as also good citizens. Among these veteran Rocky Mountain hunters was a tall man, with long black hair, smooth face, dark eyes (inclining to turn his head a little to one side, as much as to say, "I can tell you all about it"), a harum-scarum, don't-care sort of a man, full of "life and fun in the mountains," as he expressed it. He came and paid his respects to the ladies, and said he had been in the mountains several years; he had not seen a white woman for so long he had almost forgotten how they looked. He appeared quite fond of telling "yarns." In the conversation, Mrs. Whitman asked him if he ever had any difficulty or fights with the Indians. "That we did," said he. "One time I was with Bridger's camp; we were traveling along that day, and the Blackfeet came upon us. I was riding an old mule. The Indians were discovered some distance off, so all the party put whip to their horses and started to get to a place where we could defend ourselves. My old mule was determined not to move, with all the beating I could give her, so I sung out to the boys to stop and fight the Indians where we were; they kept on, however. Soon, my old mule got sight of the Blackfeet coming; she pricked up her ears, and on she went like a streak, passed the boys, and away we went. I sung out to the boys, as I passed, 'Come on, boys, there is no use to stop and fight the Indians here.'" Fun and firmness were the two prominent characteristics of this young mountain hunter. He expressed a wish and a determination to visit and settle in lower Oregon (as the Wallamet Valley was then called). He had a native wife, and one son, just beginning to speak a few words. The father seemed, on my first noticing him, to be teaching this son of his to say "God d----n you," doubtless considering this prayer the most important one to teach his son to repeat, in the midst of the wild scenes with which he was surrounded. Though, to his credit be it said, this same wild, youthful mountaineer has become a good supporter of religious society, and has a respectable family, in an interesting neighborhood, near Forest Grove, in Oregon.