Sauntering along the river bank on our way to the post, we carefully surveyed the scene of the fight and its environment. Back of the fort, at no great distance from the stream, lay a high table-land, its abrupt and barren face, where it rose from the valley, being creased with wrinkled folds by erosion. Beyond this and further to the south the Caspar range of mountains stood out in jagged outlines against a cloudless Wyoming sky. Seen through the pure and wonderfully transparent air, and illuminated by the bright light of the setting sun, the distant deeply-wooded gorges and rocky peaks seemed hardly a mile away. Toward the north and embracing the battle-field the valley extends back a short distance to a steep ascent, beyond which is a rough, broken, elevated region that might afford concealment to a numerous enemy. Where it is crossed by the bridge, the river is about 100 yards in width. Crossing it, we soon found ourselves among officers and soldiers; and from those of them who had guarded that structure during the massacre we learned the story, parts of it from some and parts from others. It came in detached and thrilling fragments, for the incidents were still fresh in their memory, and the thrills they had experienced on the day of the fight were renewed in their vigorous narration. We were informed that the death of Lieutenant Collins and his men was but one, though doubtless the most dramatic, in a series of Indian massacres that ensanguined that fatal trail during the few preceding months. I have heard descriptions of several of these events from eyewitnesses.