In time, after climbing over hills and traversing rough prairies, we reached Fort Caspar, near which was the only bridge across the North Platte River. On receiving orders that we should not be permitted to proceed beyond the west valley until the regulation number of wagons and men had been assembled, we were allowed to cross. A toll of five dollars per wagon enabled us to reach the other shore. We passed on three-fourths of a mile beyond the bridge, where the parties separated and camped.
WILD MIDNIGHT REVELRY IN THE CASPAR HILLS
There are spots in foreign lands, the objects of never-failing interest because of some heroic deeds with which they are associated, the memory of which has been perpetuated in history. Our camp near Caspar happened to be pitched upon a spot glorified by the blood of heroes as brave and patriotic as the Spartans who fell at Thermopylae. The desperate conflict of our soldiers upon this Wyoming field against overwhelming numbers was hardly less dramatic than was that of the Greeks and well deserves an honored place in the memory of Americans. Hardly two rods from our camp there stood a little monument marking the spot where a few months prior to our visit Lieutenant Caspar W. Collins and his little band were slain while voluntarily making a valorous and almost hopeless effort to save the lives of a score of comrades, in the face of thousands of desperate and blood-thirsty savages. Although we had some previous knowledge of this tragedy, our first impulse was to recross the river to the post and from eye witnesses learn the particulars of the thrilling battle. As soon as our supper was eaten, four of our party started down stream toward the bridge. The post formerly known as Platte Bridge had now, in recognition of Collins' valorous deed, been named Fort Caspar, by order of Major General Pope commanding.
The range near-by was also named the Caspar Mountains. The post lay near the southern bank of the North Platte River, 133 miles above Fort Laramie and less than a mile below the site of the monument. It consisted of fifteen or twenty structures built on the sides of an open quadrangle.
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.