Before the winter was over, La Bonté had lost all traces of civilized humanity, and might justly claim to be considered as "hard a case" as any of the mountaineers then present. Long before the spring opened, he had lost all the produce of his hunt and both his animals, which, however, by a stroke of luck, he recovered, and wisely held on to for the future. Right glad when spring appeared, he started from Brown's Hole, with four companions, to hunt the Uintah or Snake country, and the affluents of the larger streams which rise in that region and fall into the Gulf of California. In the valley of the Bear River they found beaver abundant, and trapped their way westward until they came upon the famed locality of the Beer and Soda Springs--natural fountains of mineral water, renowned amongst the trappers as being "medicine" of the first order. Arriving one evening, about sundown, at the Bear Spring, they found a solitary trapper sitting over the rocky basin, intently regarding, with no little awe, the curious phenomenon of the bubbling gas. Behind him were piled his saddles and a pack of skins, and at a little distance a hobbled Indian pony fed amongst the cedars which formed a grove round the spring. As the three hunters dismounted from their animals, the lone trapper scarcely noticed their arrival, his eyes being still intently fixed upon the water. Looking round at last, he was instantly recognized by one of La Bonté's companions, and saluted as "Old Rube." Dressed from head to foot in buckskin, his face, neck, and hands appeared to be of the same leathery texture, so nearly did they assimilate in color to the materials of his dress. He was at least six feet two or three in his moccasins, straight-limbed and wiry, with long arms ending in hands of tremendous grasp, and a quantity of straight black hair hanging on his shoulders. His features, which were undeniably good, wore an expression of comical gravity, never relaxing into a smile, which a broad good-humored mouth could have grinned from ear to ear. "What, boys!" he said, "will you be simple enough to camp here alongside these springs? Nothing good ever came of sleeping here, I tell you, and the worst kind of devils are in those dancing waters." "Why, old hoss," cried La Bonté, "what brings you hyar then, and camp at that?" "This nigger," answered Rube, solemnly, "has been down'd upon a sight too often to be skeared by what can come out from them waters; and thar am't a devil as hisses thar as can shine with this child, I tell you. I've tried him onest, an' fout him to clawin' away to Eustis; * and if I draws my knife again on such varmint, I'll raise his hair, as sure as shootin'." * A small lake near the head-waters of the Yellow Stone, near which are some curious thermal springs of ink-black water.