We helped her search for a
lame wild duck that had spurned the offer of a good home with
civilized ducklings, and had taken to the sage-brush. Mrs. Holmes'
love of wild animals, however, failed to include the bald-headed eagle
that had shown such an appetite for her spring chickens.
A few miles below this ranch we passed Bridger Crossing, a ford on an
old trail through southern Wyoming. In pioneer days Jim Bridger's home
was on this very spot. But those romantic days are long since past;
and where this world-famous scout once watched through the loopholes
of his barricade, was an amazed youngster ten or eleven years old who
gazed on us, then ran to the cabin and emerged with a rifle in his
hands. We thought little of this incident at the time, but later we
met the father of the boy and were told that the children had been
left alone with the small boy as their only protector, and that he
stood ready to defend the home against any possible marauders. No
doubt we looked bad enough to him.
Just below the ford the channel widened, and the river became very
shallow, the low rolling hills falling away into a wide green prairie.
We camped that night on a small island, low and treeless, but covered
with deep, rank grass. Next morning our sleeping-bags were wet with
frost and dew. A hard pull against a heavy wind between gradually
deepening rocky banks made us more than glad to pitch camp at noon a
short distance above the mouth of Henry's Fork, a considerable stream
flowing from the west.
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