We were met at the gate, but by no means cordially welcomed. Indeed,
we seemed objects of some distrust and suspicion until Henry Chatillon
explained that we were not traders, and we, in confirmation, handed to
the bourgeois a letter of introduction from his principals. He took
it, turned it upside down, and tried hard to read it; but his literary
attainments not being adequate to the task, he applied for relief to
the clerk, a sleek, smiling Frenchman, named Montalon. The letter read,
Bordeaux (the bourgeois) seemed gradually to awaken to a sense of what
was expected of him. Though not deficient in hospitable intentions, he
was wholly unaccustomed to act as master of ceremonies. Discarding all
formalities of reception, he did not honor us with a single word, but
walked swiftly across the area, while we followed in some admiration to
a railing and a flight of steps opposite the entrance. He signed to us
that we had better fasten our horses to the railing; then he walked
up the steps, tramped along a rude balcony, and kicking open a door
displayed a large room, rather more elaborately finished than a barn.
For furniture it had a rough bedstead, but no bed; two chairs, a chest
of drawers, a tin pail to hold water, and a board to cut tobacco upon. A
brass crucifix hung on the wall, and close at hand a recent scalp, with
hair full a yard long, was suspended from a nail. I shall again have
occasion to mention this dismal trophy, its history being connected with
that of our subsequent proceedings.

This apartment, the best in Fort Laramie, was that usually occupied by
the legitimate bourgeois, Papin; in whose absence the command devolved
upon Bordeaux. The latter, a stout, bluff little fellow, much inflated
by a sense of his new authority, began to roar for buffalo robes. These
being brought and spread upon the floor formed our beds; much better
ones than we had of late been accustomed to. Our arrangements made, we