old Times in the Black Hills. 



In the spring of '75 I found myself one of 

 a party of six occupying a rude but strongly 

 fortified stockade on French Creek, in the 

 Black Hills, almost under the shadow of Ca- 

 lamity Peak, and not far from where Custer 

 City was afterward built. 



I had left Denver the previous fall, quite a 

 tenderfoot, and, like Lord Lovel of milk-white 

 steed fame, wanting "strange countries for to 

 see," I determined to join a party that I heard 

 was outfitting at Cheyenne to go into the 

 Black Hills upon a hunting and prospecting 

 tour, under the guidance of old California Joe, 

 one of the most noted scouts and hunters in 

 the West. At this time the presence of gold 

 in the Black Hills was hardly known, and the 

 country, being an Indian reservation, had not 

 even been explored by white men, or surveyed 

 by the government. The plans of the party 

 in question suited my ideas exactly, and I 

 soon found myself on the back of a "cayuse," 



73 



