Satisfied that an open attack would eventuate in death to some of their number, nearly one-half of the Indians left the ranks and passed from our sight down the cañon, but soon reappeared, emerging from the thicket on the opposite side of our camp. We wheeled our four horses into a hollow square, and, standing in the centre, presented our guns at each assaulting party. As our horses were the booty they most wished to obtain, they were now restrained lest they should kill them instead of us. A few moments of painful suspense—moments into which days of anxiety were crowded—supervened. A brief consultation followed, and the chief gave orders for them to withdraw. They all wheeled into rapid line, and with the military precision of a troop of cavalry dashed down the cañon and we saw them no more.
Thankful for an escape attributable to the snow which had unfitted their guns for use, and to the successful raid they had made upon our neighbors, we saddled our horses and hurried over the mountain range with all possible speed. While crossing, we found two horses which, jaded with travel, had been abandoned by the Indians. We took them with us, and on our arrival at Grasshopper some days after, restored one to Dr. Glick, its rightful owner.
“I have had seven horses stolen from me by these prowlers,” said he, “but this is the first one that was ever returned.”
The little gulch at Pike’s Peak was fully occupied when we arrived, and after remaining a few days, we mounted our horses and made a tedious but unadventurous journey to Bannack, then, and for nearly a year afterwards, the most important gold placer east of the Rocky Mountains.
The fame of this locality had reached Salmon River late in the Fall of 1862, and many of the people left the Florence mines for the east side. Among them came the first irruption of robbers, gamblers, and horse-thieves, and the settlement was filled with gambling houses and saloons, where bad men and worse women held constant vigil, and initiated that reign of infamy which nothing but the strong hand could extirpate.
It is charitable to believe that Henry Plummer came to Bannack intending to reform, and live an honest and useful life. His deportment justified that opinion. His criminal career was known only to two or three persons as criminal as himself. If he could have been relieved of the fear of exposure and of the necessity of associating with his old comrades in crime, it is not improbable that his better nature would have triumphed. He possessed great executive ability, a power over men that was remarkable, a fine person, polished address, and prescient knowledge of his fellows—all of which were mellowed by the advantages of a good early education. With all the concerns of a mining camp experience had made him familiar, and for some weeks after his arrival in Bannack he was oftener applied to for counsel and advice than any other resident. Cool and dispassionate, he evinced on these occasions a power of analysis that seldom failed of conviction. He speedily became a general favorite. We can better imagine than describe the mixed nature of those feelings, which, fired with ambitious designs and virtuous purposes, beheld the way to their fulfilment darkened by a retrospect of unparalleled atrocity. So true it is that the worst men are the last to admit to themselves the magnitude of their offences, that even Plummer, stained with the guilt of repeated murders and seductions, a very monster of iniquity, believed that his restoration to the pursuits and honors of virtuous association could be established but for a possible exposure by some of his guilty partners. He knew their watchful eyes were upon him; that they were ready to follow him as leader or crush him as a traitor.