— 67 — 
cinity of Fort Laramie, but sixteen miles distant, 
promised us a speedy meeting with human beings. 
Before we reached the fort, we encountered the first 
“pale faces’’ we had seen since our departure from 
Missouri. They were French Canadians, clad half 
Indian fashion in leather, and scurrying along on 
their ponies, bedight with bells and gay ribbons, as if 
intent to storm some battery. Old acquaintances 
greeted each other, question piled on question; and 
each briefly told, in Canadian patois, the adventures 
he had been through. Meanwhile we came in view 
of the fort. 
At a distance it resembles a great blockhouse; and 
lies in a narrow valley, enclosed by grassy hills, near 
by the left bank of the Laramie, which empties into 
the North Platte about a mile below. Toward the 
west a fine background is formed by the Black Hills, 
a dark chain of mountains covered with evergreen 
trees. We crossed the Laramie toward noon, and en- 
camped outside the fort. The fort itself first at- 
tracted my attention. It lies on a slight elevation, and 
is built in a rectangle of about eighty by a hundred 
feet. The outside is made of cottonwood logs, about 
fifteen feet high, hewed off, and wedged closely to- 
gether. On three sides there are little towers on the 
wall that seem designed for watch and defense. In 
the middle a strong gate, built of blocks, constitutes 
the entrance. Within, little buildings with flat roofs 
are plastered all around against the wall, like swal- 
lows’ nests. One is the store house; another the 
Journey up 
the North 
Fork—The 
Prairie Dog 
—Fort 
Laramie 
