I was aroused from my slumber, before it was yet light, by Biddon shaking me and calling in my ear: “Come, you chaps, you’ve got only two minutes to swaller yer feed in.” Nat was already moving about, and I sprang to my feet, determined to continue in my friend’s good graces, if such a thing were possible, by a cheerful acquiescence in all his reasonable wishes. Our fire was kindled, a hasty breakfast swallowed, and just as the sun made its appearance above the prairie, we moved off toward the north. Long before noon we reached the Platte, and forded it at the point where Fort Grattan now stands. The Platte, during the winter months, is a boisterous stream of great width, but in summer it is very shallow (from which circumstance it derives its name), and at the dry season it almost ceases running, and dwindles down to an innumerable number of stagnant pools. As it was now the summer season, we walked over without more than merely wetting our shoes. The Oregon trail follows the northern shore of this stream to Washington Territory, or to what was Oregon at the time of which I write. Leaving the Platte, we shaped our course toward the northwest, so as to strike the southern spur of the Black Hills. From Biddon’s conversation, I found that his destination was the neighborhood of the head-waters of the Tongue or Powder River, which have their cañons in the Black Hills. As he allowed his horse to proceed upon a moderate walk, we had no trouble in keeping him company. We generally started at the first indication of morning, halting now and then to slake our thirst in the numerous streams which crossed our path, and resting an hour at noon. At sunset we struck camp upon some small stream, cooked our evening meal, spent an hour or two in smoking and conversation, and turned in for the night. The country over which we now journeyed was much better timbered than any through which we had yet passed. For an entire day after crossing the Platte, we met with thousands of the ash, elm, walnut, and cottonwood trees. The bark of the latter, I was surprised to observe, was greatly relished by the trapper’s horse, he often preferring it to the rich, succulent grass which so abounds in this region. Besides this there were signs of the buffalo, antelope, and hundreds of other animals. One night we halted upon the bank of a large stream some miles north of the Platte, which emptied into the Missouri. It was quite broad and rapid, and near the center of the channel a small, sandy island was visible. We passed over this while fording the stream, and I noticed that Biddon walked around it, and surveyed several spots with more than common interest. I did not question him then, but at night, when we were stretched before the fire, with our soothing pipes, I ventured the inquiry. “I seed sights on that chunk of mud one time,” said he, with a dark frown. “What was it?--what was it?” asked Nat, eagerly.